


By The Time

by MissDietrich



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Assassin's Creed (Video Game), Blood and Violence, Death, Eventual Romance, F/M, Masturbation, Masyaf, Pre-Assassin's Creed, Pre-Canon, Sex, Slavery, i swear francisco randez is gorgeous af, sorry it's too long, young altair and malik tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-06-05 15:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 47
Words: 182,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15173561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDietrich/pseuds/MissDietrich
Summary: Masyaf, 1185.Finally escaping the slavery mill, Ambra finds what she has been seeking: a chance to help her friends. Although serving another master has to be the price, it is a fair trade for joining the Assassins Brotherhood.Meanwhile, Altaïr returns from Jerusalem to find that Al-Mu'alim has given him a gift in form of a task. For once in his twenty-years of life, his balance has been disturbed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic contains abuse and sex. Please read the author's note before reading the chapters.
> 
> Aaaaaah! Finallyyyy! I've been working on this fanfic since January, and this is the first time i'll publish it!
> 
> The original, uncut version is about 500 pages long (longer than my thesis wtf), so this is the shorter version. Still the same, though i left out some details on the daily life of the assassins.
> 
> This one sets 6 years before Assassin's Creed timeline, so Altaïr is about 20 years old.
> 
> I'd like to thank Francisco Randez for existing, for being the face model for Desmond Miles and Altaïr, for being the mortal version of Adonis. And Lord, the man age like fine wine! Check him out on Cheval-Serpent cause damn!
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

The past two weeks have been hell for Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad.

The eighth ranked assassin enters the city of Masyaf wearily. The journey home from Jerusalem has not been a light one, with the growing numbers of Crusaders and Saracens marching around, it can be said a war is about to happen. With the increasing numbers of army in Jerusalem, it only adds more chaos to the streets. Protests occurred everywhere almost every day. As if to test Altaïr's patience, the old rafiq of the bureau was not making his mission easier. How exactly did someone forget to mention the target had bodyguards?

The city of Masyaf is a contrast to Jerusalem, and it brings him a piece of peace. He walks past the citizen who are on their way to start their day, either to the mosque or to the market. Some passing him, giving a nod of respect - a common gesture. He does not stop to say anything, only nodding a bit and fasten his pace, hoping to earn a rest in the dormitory.

"Safety and peace, Altaïr." The fortress guard suddenly greets as he walks up the hill.

"Safety and peace." Altaïr replies shortly, hoping to fend off unnecessary talk.

"There is an order from Al-Mu'alim. He wants to see you as soon as possible." The guard informs.

Altaïr frowns, what now? Surely the target he killed in Jerusalem was not that important, was it? Did the old rafiq send complain about my stay? "Did he say why?"

"Only that it's important." The guard replies.

Altaïr sighs, "Very well."

The dormitory is located within the fortress wall of Masyaf, in one of its large towers. It is a three stories building made of stone, and it houses a number of assassins from low ranking to the higher ones. The bottom story has a bathhouse, storage room, and the armory. The second story houses low ranking assassins in sleeping quarters, six assassins per room. The top story is for combat instructors and high ranking assassins. This is where Altaïr's room is located.

The assassin climbs the stairs hurriedly, not wanting to have another interruption between him and his rest. He reaches the front of his room, a thick wooden door in a sunlight filled hallway from an open window. He fishes out a key from his pouch, unlocks the door, and almost impatiently entering his room.

The familiar scent of his room soothes him, but there is no time to waste. His tunics are dirty and damp from sweat, and his blades reek with blood. After removing his boots by the doorway, he heads to the wardrobe, fingers undoing the knife holster across his chest. The hood has been lowered, baring his short dark brown locks to the cool air of his room. Sweat rolls down from his temple, and he wipes it off with his armbrace.

One by one, he removes his effects, from the holster to the leather armbraces, and eventually his belt, storing them in the empty side of his wardrobe. He takes off his hood and throws it to the floor. He unties his sash and lets it join the hood as well. His sleeveless outer tunic follows, then his longer inner tunic, and he sighs for finally getting rid of the materials. He grabs an unused rag from the wardrobe, and uses it to wipe the sweat clinging to his skin.

What exactly does Al-Mu'alim want with him? Is it regarding this mission? Or another one? I doubt it, he sighs, fingers untying the knot of his trousers. It is not like there is no other assassin to be sent away on a mission...

As he is changing his clothes, he reflects on the last few days. From the harsh city of Jerusalem, the possibility of an incoming war, to the days spent on the road. Thankfully, he had taken the trader's route, not the usual travelers route. Seeing the soldiers in the distance had been bothering him, let alone facing them. The heat of the day was unbearable as well, after all, it is nearing summer.

He decides to head to the dining hall before reporting back to Al-Mu'alim. It will be shameful to show up with rumbling stomach. Exiting the western tower, he crosses the training field to head to the eastern one, where it houses the dining hall, the ward, and the workers of the fortress. When he enters, a familiar voice greets him.

"Oh, you're back already? I was about to fetch you from Jerusalem." Malik, a fellow assassin who used to train with him, says sarcastically.

"Aren't you glad you didn't..." Altaïr replies, ignoring the remark. "And wipe that stupid grin off."

Malik shrugs, "Same old foul mouth. You might end up lonely, Altaïr."

"It could be you." Altaïr sits down in one of tables, slightly annoyed but relieved that his friend follows. He notices a rip on Malik's outer tunic. "Your tunic," he points, "what happened?"

Without even looking, Malik replies, "Kadar ripped it during sparring yesterday." He fills his plate with chicken and bread.

Altaïr starts filling his plate as well, "Huh. He might end up being higher ranked than you." He jabs, reminding the shorter assassin who is two ranks below him.

"Oh shut up. I'll get to your rank one day."

They are eating in silence. Altaïr looks around the dining hall. At the end of a table, Abbas is eating with his students. Altaïr feels a tug in his heart, remembering the time when he and Abbas drifted apart. All because of the truth, that Abbas' father gave up Altaïr's father to the enemy, leading to his death. Altaïr still has the image etched in the back of his mind, Abbas' father coming to his quarter, confessing, then took his own life with a dagger. So what if it is the truth? The fellow student did not want to listen. Now, years after it has been spilled, Altaïr wonders if they'd still be on good terms had it not happened.

"How was Jerusalem?" Malik asks once he finishes his plate.

"It's not bad." Altaïr replies, biting on a date. "Just another mission."

"Usually it means it doesn't go well, or it goes well enough but you dislike the situation." Malik smirks. "Which one is it?"

Altaïr sighs, "Just wish you don't have to be sent there, Malik."

"Oh, it is that bad, huh?" Malik chuckles. "Once Akbar told me that he was pushed by a bystander off of a bench. The guard noticed him, and he had to run on rooftops to lose them. He always worries to be sent there."

Altaïr does not bother to comment. Malik is known for his curiosity and playful tone, and honestly, he is too exhausted to face him. He opts to look around the hall again, finding his students sitting in one of the long tables. Tholeb, Hamzah, and Sofyan - despite joining at the same age and of the same fourth rank, they are different on their own. Tholeb is the wise one among the three, and he is known for his agility. Hamzah is quiet and reserved, but his accuracy with throwing knives is deadly. Sofyan is the joker among them, always so light-hearted, but deep down, he masters several killing techniques, and his sense of direction is strong.

"Did my students give any trouble?" Altaïr asks, knowing how they can be under other instructor's supervision.

"They handled themselves well." Malik chews on a date. "Rauf let them spar with his students yesterday, so I'd advise you to go easy on them today. But who am I to tell you what not to do."

Altaïr ignores his last remark. Truth be told, he'd rather have his students train with other instructors for today, so he can rest up for a while. Not to mention he still has to go to Al-Mu'alim -

Oh yes, Al-Mu'alim.

Altaïr fills his cup with water and drinks, before standing up. "I have to go now."

"Where to?" Malik asks, ever so pestering.

"Al-Mu'alim asked for me."

"Another mission?"

"Maybe. If I didn't return for training, have my students join yours, Malik."

Malik rolls his eyes at him, a disrespecting gesture if he sees it from ranking perspective, but he decides not to care. "Yes, yes, leave them to me." With the passing of the remark, Altaïr walks out of the dining hall.

The chattering is muffled once the door is closed, and is replaced by the quiet sound of the morning. The wind blows softly, rustling the leaves of the trees loud enough to be heard from inside the fortress. Altaïr makes his way to Al-Mu'alim's quarter.

The bottom story of the castle acts as a library. The scholars are absent, possibly still having breakfast, but the guards remain. The large hall is filled with bookcases, all full of leather-bound books and scrolls. There are tables filled with parchments and bottles of ink, the proof of the scholars' activity day and night.

Altaïr walks up the stairs, where the gate to the garden is. Even in the morning, the flowers of the garden are awake and about. The courtesans, the infamous flowers of Masyaf castle, whose purpose is to entertain and accompany the assassins whenever they are needed to. Something that he does not understand why - if one has time to play, one has time to train. If he were younger, his judgment of them would be different. But now, having his share of knowing them, he finds it easier to dwell in rigorous training with certain result than indulging in an act of passion that exhausts the body and mind.

The courtesans see him from the glass gate, and they beckon at him, flicking the transparent shawls at his direction. The colorful clothes that they are wearing are almost transparent, baring the skin of their neck, arms, and abdomen to the air. Their sultry gaze is paired with their softly spoken words of seduction and giggle.

"He's not going to come, Alma." Says one courtesan to her friend.

"Oh maybe he will, Lina." Alma insists.

"You'll wear yourself out before he takes a step here."

"More reason why he should come here."

Altaïr continues climbing up the stairs to reach Al-Mu'alim's quarter, ignoring the remarks given by the courtesans. It is not the first time people talk about him, it will not be the last time either, so why bother? Although he understands how boring life in the garden must be, secluded and unable to leave freely, having only to wait for people to come and accompany them. But that is not his concern.

Al-Mu'alim is feeding his pigeons when Altaïr enters, "Ah, welcome back, Altaïr. I expect you've accomplished your mission?"

Altaïr walks to the center of the room, stopping a few meters away from the large wooden desk by the window. "Yes, Master. Although I had to leave early. I'm afraid the city inflicts bad influence on me."

"Yes, time's tough in Jerusalem." Al-Mu'alim chuckles. He walks to his desk, only to stand behind it. His one good eye is looking at Altaïr, as if observing. "How the time has passed."

Altaïr stands still in his place.

"I remember when you were just...this tall," Al-Mu'alim places a hand in front of his chest, "a young boy so naive, he would play with his father's sword when he thought no one was looking."

Altaïr holds back a smile.

"It seems like it was just yesterday that you came to me as a child, but now... You have grown into a man. Twenty years old, is it?"

"Yes, Master."

Al-Mu'alim nods, "Nine long years, and already you've shown promises to be a great assassin."

Altaïr wonders where this conversation would lead to. Is this about a mission? Is he talking about his mistakes? Is there something about his past that he still does not know?

"The path of men is a difficult one to walk, Altaïr. We are born with strength to protect others, graced with many blessings, only to have them taken away at the end. The gift of life, the life itself, is so precious and yet fragile. You, as well as your brethren, are the ones destined with the chance to protect and serve peace. Where in this world there are men whose desire is destructive, we are granted a chance to stop them." Al-Mu'alim walks to the front of his desk, "and taking a life is both a blessing and a curse that we are bestowed with.

"Altaïr, you have seen the good and the bad in men, and the good and the bad in life. You are willing to embrace the pain of the past and move on, to grow up to be a better man. Whenever I look at you, my boy, it fills me with both sadness and joy, knowing you have matured so much, naivety is not a trait you possessed anymore. The space you filled in for your father - I am certain he is happy in the afterlife. He has given you the gift of life, as what I am going to give as well."

Gift of life?

"I have accepted reports from your brethren regarding yourself. Those that you teach have accepted you as an admirable instructor. Those that accompany you in missions have deemed you trustworthy. And those that had taught you have deemed you skillful. Your rank is higher than your fellow brethren, and so does your wisdom."

Altaïr shifts on his feet, "Forgive me, Master, you talk highly of me."

"As I should have done. To be said shortly, I am proud of you, and I want to give you a gift." Al-Mu'alim's smile grows slightly. "Yesterday, as my caravan rode back to Masyaf, we were stopped by a peddler with a bleeding arm. He asked for help, saying that their slave was being out of control. Yet when we followed him to his camp, what I saw was beyond humane.

"The person that he had called 'slave' was a young girl with a noose tied around her neck, and body stripped of clothing. Indeed, she was attacking the other peddlers, but she was screaming for help. The guards subdued the situation, and so I assessed the situation." Al-Mu'alim sighs, "The girl claimed to be a runaway slave from Tarsus, yet she was found by the peddlers hiding in one of their barrels. The peddlers said otherwise, that she was theirs legally, yet they had no proof. So, they were killed for lies and abuse."

The look in Al-Mu'alim's face is painful.

"Master?" Altaïr calls.

"You see, Altaïr, the reason why I never wished to recruit female in the Brotherhood is not because I deem them to be weaker, no. I don't have the heart to allow the cruelty of this life to corrupt them, which is why the courtesans exist and live in the garden. But this girl, once freed, begged to be taken by me." Al-Mu'alim paces lightly in front of Altaïr, from one bookcase to another.

"Taken how? As a courtesan?"

"No, by Allah, no." Al-Mu'alim glares. "She wished to serve me, as in she wished to be my servant." He stops pacing, "in return, she wished to be trained as an assassin."

"What?" Altaïr blurts out. "But this is -"

Al-Mu'alim raises his hand, "Keep your judgment before knowing the truth, my boy."

Altaïr bites back a retort, "Yes, Master."

Al-Mu'alim turns to look at him, "I saw the truth in her when she spoke of her origin, and Id like you to see it too. Right now," he sighs, "she is yours."

Altaïr is ready to protest, and so he does, "Master, this is too much."

"Are you saying my judgment of you is wrong?"

"No, Master. I merely said - this is a big responsibility."

Al-Mu'alim nods, "It is a small responsibility compared to mine, Altaïr. I am your mentor, the mentor of all of your brothers, and I feel responsible for each and every one of you. I gave her to you as both a lesson and a gift, that perhaps one day, your wisdom and leadership will surpass mine." He holds Altaïr's shoulder, "And for the sake of Allah, show compassion for yourself. You are so immersed in missions and training that you constantly ignore social needs."

Altaïr opens his mouth to protest, but decides to hold it back. "Master, thank you." Is all he says.

Al-Mu'alim lets go of him, "The girl's name is Ambra, but as her master, you are permitted to change it to whatever you like. I expect you to teach her the way you teach your students, Altaïr."

"What about the others, Master? If they see me with her, would they not think you have spoiled me?"

Al-Mu'alim laughs, "Spoil you? My boy, I am simply giving what you deserve. Should they dare accuse you of being spoiled, you are free to explain the truth to them, that she is a student, and you are her instructor, bound to each other as servant and master."

Why not just marry us - Altaïr stops his thought when realizing if he could have a wife, he would not let her join the way of the brotherhood. He sighs deeply. Somehow being in Jerusalem does not seem so bad.

"Are you ready to meet her?" Al-Mu'alim asks.

Altaïr sighs deeper, "Yes, Master."

"Guard," Al-Mu'alim calls for the nearby guard, who turns around as called, "bring Ambra here."

As the guard leaves through the door that leads to Al-Mu'alim's private chamber, Altaïr feels his heart racing. His own servant - he replays the thought in his mind. A girl that is bound to his will, permitted to anything that he desires, yet having to be taught as an assassin. He sighs again, recalling Al-Mu'alim's words about not taking care of his social needs. Either the brethren or the courtesans would say the same about him.

"I expect you to protect her from other men. She has not been touched before." Al-Mu'alim suddenly says.

"What - oh." Altaïr tries not to blush. A virgin. He has been given a virgin servant.

The guard returns, and behind him, walks in a girl. She wears the usual robe worn by new recruits; grey tunic, layered with a sleeveless white tunic, a red sash around the waist, a leather belt over it, a hood, trousers, and a pair of leather boots. Even when she is plainly dressed, she certainly will attract attention to her feminine figure.

"Ambra," Al-Mu'alim approaches her, gently addresses her with the name. "Meet Altaïr."

Ambra approaches Altaïr. She stands barely reaching to his chin, and even more so as she nods, slightly bowing down, "Pleased to meet you, master." She says softly, yet voice a bit hoarse.

Altaïr does not feel comfortable at all.

 

 

(Hey! Welcome, and thank you for taking your time in starting to read this!

In case you're wondering, this is the Altair i used in this version.)

(Aaaand under the hood? Oh well, idk if i should say thank you or sorry to Francisco Randez, but have a go at these!)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of abuse and rape.

As if to make matters worse, Al-Mu'alim orders him to take some time off to get familiar with Ambra. Altaïr takes his leave from the chamber, walking down the stairs hastily, right now intending to reach his room in short time without anyone else noticing. The scholars have not yet returned, that is good. He cannot say the same for the brethren, though.

The training field is being prepared by the lower ranked students, but he pays them no mind. Ambra is tailing behind him, ever so obedient, walking in straight line. Quickly, he reaches the western tower, and makes his way up the staircase to his floor.

He opens the door to his room, only now turning around to look at Ambra. "Come in." He says curtly. She nods, and sheepishly enters his room.

There is not many furniture in his room. In the left corner, there is a large carpet with heaps of pillows where he usually sleeps. At the foot of the carpet is the wardrobe. On the opposite side of the carpet, in the right corner, is a shelf full of dried and salted food, and a big clay jar of water. Almost in the center of the room is a table with two chairs. An oil lamp is hanging on the ceiling, extinguished, but acting as the only source of light at night. He keeps the area around the door empty, for it is where he occasionally trains in the room.

The window in the back of the room is open to air the room, giving a view of the western canyon and the lushful green beyond. He hears Ambra muttering quietly, "It's beautiful."

"It certainly is." He replies, much to her surprise. "Take off your boots and place them by the door. You may take a seat wherever you like."

How obedient - he watches silently as she removes her boots, keeping her distance from him as she places them by his own. Then her head turns to look around the room again, stopping to the empty corner by the door.

"Not there," he sighs, stopping her. She freezes in place. "The carpet."

She nods, and again, sheepishly, moves to the carpet. She sits on the edge of it, and Altaïr holds himself not to sigh. He takes a seat opposite her, finding her flinching as he does so.

He'd love to get this done with, have her spilled all of the details without being asked twice, but at the same time, he realizes the situation clearer now. This is not a joke, not a dream, certainly not a product of exhaustion. He has been given a servant - a student, he corrects himself, in form of a servant. But why?

"I hope you understand this is a serious matter." He begins. "The Assassin Brotherhood is not a charity or a sanctuary, the name explains, we kill people. I give you a chance to go now, and death will not follow you."

She tenses, but says nothing.

"You wish to stay here?" He rephrases.

"Yes, master." Her replies comes as quiet as it can be, that his ears are straining to hear it.

"Why?"

"I-" she stutters, "I want - to kill..."

He raises an eyebrow at the reply, "You wish to kill someone? You can do so without joining us, it's simpler."

She shakes her head.

Altaïr shifts in his seat, lowering his hood from the still damp hair. "I'm not the only one confused here, am I? For all I know, Al-Mu'alim took you in for something, then he assigned you to me as a 'student' in form of 'servant', now you said you wish to join the Brotherhood because you want to kill someone. Do I hear this correctly?"

She nods, "Yes, master."

"Stop calling me 'master'. My name's Altaïr, and Im nobody's master." He says, rather annoyed by the new nickname. "Try calling me by name."

She stutters again, "Al - Altaïr." The way she says it, there is no way she is from somewhere around Masyaf. His name rolls out differently from her tongue.

He frowns, "Your name... Ambra, yes?"

"Yes, but my name is yours to change, mas - Altaïr." She replies quietly.

"Do you want it to be changed?"

She flinches at the question, "N-no."

"Then your name stays the same." He observes her, how she keeps her head low, that he notices he has not seen her face yet. "Why won't you look at me?"

Again, she flinches, "The rule of a servant is not to look at the master in the face."

He hums at the reply, "And the rule of a student is to pay attention to the teacher. How are you going to learn if you don't know which one I am?" He watches her shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "Lower your hood and look at me."

With shaky, bandage-wrapped fingers, she pulls the hood down from her head. The first thing he sees is her tied up jet black hair. Then she raises her head slightly to look at him, and it catches him off guard. Deep purple bruises adorn her face, and her split bottom lip is healing with dried blood. Her skin is dark in color, but considered lighter than his, softer from the look of it. But what catches his attention the most is her eyes. A pair of vibrant, emerald green eyes. The color is a contrast against her bruises.

"Ambra... 'treasure', yes?" He says.

"What?" She blurts out in surprise.

"Your name. Ambra is another word for amber, a gem, or treasure." He explains. "Who gave you the name?"

She blushes upon the realization of her name, and it sends her cheeks to be deep red. "My...friends at the mill."

"The mill?" He probes, "Look, tell me about yourself. It's efficient than asking you the question one by one."

She is ready to lower her head again, but he clears his throat, and she blinks repeatedly before looking back at him. Face of guilt, as if she is just caught doing something she is not supposed to do. I see now, he thinks, she is as plain as a blank parchment, anyone can read through her. No wonder Al-Mu'alim asked him to pry the information directly from her.

"I..." She begins, hesitant. There is pain in her eyes, a hint of sorrow as well. Something bad has happened to her? She inhales deeply, "I ran away from a slavery mill in Tarsus."

He does not say anything.

"I was born there, and raised like others, to do chores in the plantation or in the big house. B-but master J-J-Jaqq -" she visibly shudders, hands clenching her sash. "He wished - t-to put it short, my friends helped me escape. I -"

Altaïr holds up a hand, and she immediately stops. "Who is master Jaqq?"

"The owner of the mill." She croaks.

"He's your previous master, and you ran away from him because...?"

"Because -" she swallows before speaking, "he wished for a son from me."

Altaïr frowns, "How old are you again?"

"Fifteen." She quickly adds, "But he has done worse - I don't even think he's a human. When I escaped, I knew I have to help my friends. That's why I came looking for the assassins."

"We're not mercenaries that can be paid to kill." Altaïr protests.

"B-but there are stories of assassins killing bad people. Mina has seen one killed her previous owner. Ayez once saw one killing a corrupt land owner in the market." Ambra hastily says. "With all respect, I don't wish to order an assassination on J-J-Jaqq. I wish to kill him myself."

Altaïr crosses his arms in front of his chest, "Do you realize how heavy your words are? Yet you said it so easily." He sees a glint in her eyes. "Life as an assassin is binding until death. Whether you like it or not, you'd be made to kill more people - taking their lives from their family. Can you bear the guilt?"

Her bottom lip trembles, "I believe...when someone wants you dead, that means you've done something horrible."

He scoffs, "Easy for you to say so. Think about your parents. Would they want you to lead this life?"

She looks hurt for once, eyes widen at the remark. "I don't know my parents."

"Oh." He clears his throat, "how so?"

"Most of us doesn't know who our parents are. The purpose of the slavery mill is to breed good slaves to sell." She lowers her gaze to the carpet, "every month, the slaver will select the men and women to breed. From what I know, my mother was killed for wanting to keep me, and my father was killed in a fight."

"Did he fight for you?"

"No, it was a fight between slaves. The masters put a bet, and the slaves fight until death."

Barbaric, Altaïr clenches his teeth. "That being said, it still doesn't justify your wish to join the assassin."

She looks at him, almost glaring, "It's still a better life than being a slave. With all due respect, you have dignity and noble purpose. The things they did in the mill - it's revolting." A tear falls from the corner of her eye, and she wipes it off quickly. "We work for hours without rest, we share a barn to live, even the cattle receives better treatment. Then the guards - they like to pull the girls aside for fun. My friend Sofi was raped in front of me." She is shaking with rage. "Then if we're too slow, or if we drop an egg, or for no clear reason, the lashing and caning will be the punishment. They strip us bare - publicly humiliated -"

"Stop." Altaïr raises his hand again, but it does not stop her from shaking. He watches her taking shaky breath to calm herself down.

He stands up from the carpet. This topic is heavy, even heavier to take in with the state he is in right now. He can understand her need for revenge, but is that it? The Brotherhood is more than an outlet for revenge, it is a way of life. He heads to the window, sighing as he feels the breeze blowing on his face.

There is so much to consider. For one, she is a female. There is no history of a female assassin in Masyaf. He knows his brethren, they'd disrespect her the first chance they get. Another thing is their relationship status as master and servant. As an assassin, he believes, highly, in equality. The titles 'master' and 'servant' already imply their difference in social standing.

"Al-Mu'alim mentioned you asked to be taken by him as a servant, in exchange of training." Altaïr says, turning around to look at her.

"Yes." She wipes the side of her face gently, where the bruise is a bit red.

"Why didn't you go with the merchants?" He leans against the window, feeling the breeze against his back.

"Their first action was stripping me bare, it was clear their intention was nowhere good." She replies a bit shockingly. "Al-Mu'alim arrived with good intention. He saved me. And the flag - assassins." She looks up to him, "I had no choice when I served J-Jaqq, and I understand its ironic, but I chose to serve Al-Mu'alim. And if he trusts you, then I do too."

Altaïr crosses his arms in front of his chest, "What if I refuse to teach you right now?"

Ambra lowers her gaze, "I'm bound to your will as your servant, Altaïr."

"Then what if I tell you that I don't wish to have you as a servant?"

She shifts in her seat, "Al-Mu'alim said you'd say that. Then I'll take my leave to him so he can assign me to another instructor." There is a blush creeping from her neck, "a-although, hearing your reputation from him, I find your achievements to be admirable."

He ignores her last remark, focusing on her answer of returning to Al-Mu'alim to be assigned to another instructor. It is tempting, actually, to tell her that he wishes to not have a servant, so let the responsibility falls to someone else.

To whom, he wonders. There are other instructors in the fortress. Rauf, for example, he is a seventh ranked assassin known for his careful approach in every techniques. Then there is Abbas, Altaïr unconsciously scoffs at the thought of him. He is a bit reckless, but he applies a ruthless and clean method of killing. Of course there is Malik, despite his witty remarks, he lives up to the name As-Sayf, being deadly with swords. They, including himself, are considered the young tier of instructors.

The older tier of instructors are those of Master Assassin title. They have taught long before him, and their skills are unquestionable, though factor of age might slow them down. There is Labib, his former combat instructor, known to be a cheerful fellow. There is Ahmed, the quiet one with sharp eyes. Rahman is a bit older, and he has retired from field training, now giving lectures to his students, as he is knowledgeable in politics and languages. There is Majd and Khalid, brothers in arms who are not related by blood, but they share similar techniques. Lastly, there is Basir, who is known for his accuracy.

Now the question is, to whom she will be given to?

Altaïr glances at Ambra, whom has lowered her head again. Of all instructors in the fortress, why him? Sure, his students gain their rank quickly, but it is merely by their determination and skill, not only by his training.

"Why did Al-Mu'alim give you to me?" He vocalizes his concern.

"He..." she replies hesitantly, Al-Mu'alim said you are the most skillful of others."

He raises an eyebrow at her tone, "Is that all?"

Her blush creeps up quickly to her nose, "He also said you're the safest option."

Safest - oh. Of course. With the things she has been through, certainly Al-Mu'alim would give her to a 'master' that will not immediately take advantage of her. So that's why he told me to take care of her, Altaïr sighs, wondering who has begun talking about his lack of sexual desire behind his back. If he catches the name, he might start throwing knives.

He cannot think straight. Massaging his temple, he sighs heavily. I need to speak with Al-Mu'alim, he thinks. But to what purpose? It is not wise to reject a gift from the Grand Mentor, especially if the gift comes in form of a heavy responsibility. On one side, he wishes to not have this burden, and let others have her. But on the other side, can he live without regret, knowing that others may not be as safe as he is? What would Al-Mu'alim think of him if he refuses to teach her?

He looks at her, seeing her already lowering her gaze to the carpet. From this side, she looks just like any other lower ranked assassins, with plain gray tunic and short stature. He inhales deeply and forces himself to think more rationally. If she is a he, can her actions and decisions be justified?

Of course. He finds the answer not to his liking, yet it is the way it is. She has rights, does she not? This is the first path of life that she chooses after escaping the slavery, and however unwise it is, she is willing to lead the life. So why not give her a chance? Sure, she will endure hard training and injuries, but if her mind and body are willing, why not?

"Are you alright being my servant?" He asks.

"Being permitted to one is much better than being permitted to all."

He takes another look at her. Is she capable of being an assassin? Is she strong enough?

"You do realize of what I'm doing? It is more than just killing people out of hatred. The risk is big, and the consequence is death." He looks at her sternly.

She nods.

"Training with me would be harder than with the other instructors. You might break, others have. I won't show you mercy during training, and you'll look at me as an instructor, as you are my student. But outside of that, you are my responsibility. I'd establish rules for you to obey. Ambra, look me in the eye." He gazes deeply into her eyes, trying to find hints of hesitation. "Is this what you want?"

The emerald and the hazel meet, neither faltering as she says, "Yes, this is what I want."

Very well.

 

The past two weeks have been hell for Ambra, then again, all of her life has been hell.

She is sitting down on the carpet, Altaïr's carpet that he has so generously shared with her. He lets her take half side by the wall, and divides their spaces with a line of pillows. The man himself is sleeping, exhausted, from the looks of him. She does not dare to make a move.

After their discussion, he has decided to share his living space with her, allowing her to sleep in his room - which is a relief for her. She was thinking the worst, like being told to sleep in the storage room or somewhere else. Yet he goes as far as sharing his wardrobe with her, letting her store what little clothing she has in his neatly organized wardrobe.

Altaïr has established rules for her, all of which she agrees with. Ambra is permitted only to him, meaning she cannot be treated like courtesans, but as an extension of him. She has to return to his room after training, with no exception to Al-Mu'alim. She is encouraged to tell the truth and speak her minds, only outside of training, whereas during training, she must be ready to obey his orders. Only his, and no one else. Whenever she is alone in his room, she must not open the door to anyone else. To this purpose, he attaches a latch to the inside of his door, so she can lock it without using a key.

Despite his kindness, the man is still a mystery to her, something that she does not dare to unveil. His presence in the room is heavy, almost like the whole place anchors itself on him, that he will know every little detail or misplaced objects.

Ambra sighs quietly, this is it, then. This is where Ill live for the rest of my life, and this is the person Ill serve until death. It is a good trade, if she knows about any. A life in servitude in exchange of training that will result in Jaqq's death, and eventually her friends will be liberated. She hopes, and she knows, that Al-Mu'alim will stay true to his promise, that she will be the one to deliver death itself to Jaqq. Now it is just the matter of process.

How long will it take to kill Jaqq? A year? Two? Or more? Will he still be alive by then? Will her friends still be there? She tucks her knees under her chin, solemnly remembering her friends, the only family she has. It breaks her to leave, but there was no other option.

A green eyed baby was born to both dark eyed parents. The first response received was to kill the baby, for it was believed to be a product of black magic. But the mother held onto her, forcing to breastfeed her, all while threatening to kill whoever dared to touch her baby. Only now that it is understood why the baby is called the way she is, 'Ambra', 'treasure' - the mother cherished her like a treasure.

But then Jaqq heard of the commotion, and the superstition of the guards, and he came to visit. Separate them, he said, but the mother begged. A knife to the throat was the answer she received. So the baby grew up motherless, fatherless, but saved for the proper time. The slaves knew better, or at least they liked to think so, teaching what they can to the baby. Arabic and Turkish in addition to her Armenian. Reading, from torn announcements taken from the market. Eloquent speaking, from the house slaves mimicking the way Jaqq and his associates speak. And writing, on the dusty planks of the barn, on the dirt path to the farm, or on the snowy ground in winter.

Now it all pays off. At least she does not have to worry to embarrass her Syrian master.

She closes her eyes, shuddering, praying in gratitude for the chance she has been given. When the news of Jaqq's interest reached her, she was terrified. Even more so when the guards took her to meet him in the big house. Jaqq was sitting on his chair, dressed in the best tailored tunics, one hand holding his trusty ivory cane. The leather whip was hanging on the belt around his waist. He motioned her to sit down across him, and she hesitated, but the man suddenly showed patience - a dangerous sign. He was not one to show patience or compassion.

Then when he uttered his meaning, she was so revolted that she tried not to cry. He was not one to be said 'no', and his intention was clear - thinking her eyes to be a sign of wealth and good luck, not black magic or a curse. He gave her time to clean up until the next day, but her friends acted quicker.

Sofi, Ambra's heart aches at the thought of her. She organized the escape by the help of Itsna and Aaliyah, the house servants. Each morning, they'd go out to the market to buy necessities, and so it was Ambra's way to freedom. Sofi prepared the cart that would be used by Itsna and Aaliyah, stuffing it with produces to sell, and sneaking Ambra inside, tucked among sacks of wheat and grains.

"You be good, yes, Ambra?" Sofi said, caressing Ambra's cheeks. "Pray yes? We love you, always love you."

Then the cart took Ambra away. Finally, away from the mill, until it was just a speck in the distance. Reaching the market, Itsna gave a signal for Ambra to hop off. And she did, then she found herself in a place full of unknown people, and it was a new experience for her - but then she heard a group of merchants were going to head to Jerusalem. Didn't Ayec say he once saw the assassin in Jerusalem?

And so she slipped into their caravans, taken through dry road, eating bits of food that she can get. For almost two weeks, she endured the long and slow journey, with doubts plaguing her mind. What if the assassins were not in Jerusalem? What if she was turned away, refused to be acknowledge? What if Jaqq knew where she was going?

But her doubts turned into fear when the merchants found her. She was terrified, humiliated, as they tore her clothes off and discussed on who would bed her first. She was angry, and so she did what she had to do to save herself. At least if she died, she'd die fighting.

Then Al-Mu'alim came with a handful of guards, and the flag he brought along, it was enough for her to know how fate worked in mysterious ways. He saved her, did not even look down on her, as she kneeled on the ground, begging to be taken by him.

"We have no place for you, child. Go and be free." He said.

"Wherever I go, I'll only be seen as a slave! At least please, let me choose my master!" She replied, pleading.

He stepped down from his horse, "You are catatonic, and you have no idea what you're talking about."

"I came from Tarsus because I wish to join the assassins." She said, still bowing down to him, kissing the sand. "Please... My journey will be meaningless, and my friends..."

He took her by her upper arms and pulled her up, expression softened, and she could see gentleness in his eyes. She was sure he would turn her away, but then he said, "Have you eaten yet, child?"

And so she rode with him to Masyaf, where he took her to the fortress, covered and guarded. Not once did he touch her skin, nor sit too close to her. He offered her food and rest, and then they talked. Her past was spilled thoroughly, about the mill, about what she had to endure, about Jaqq and his business associates, about her reason for escape.

When she was finished, Al-Mu'alim was quiet, thinking. Eventually, he finally spoke, "Will you be using this as an outlet of revenge?"

"Justice." She replied, almost sternly.

"What do you know about it?"

"I was born and lived with none, but I believe kindness is returned with kindness, so is evil. Perhaps I'll be the one Allah sends to deliver it."

The old man nodded once, "The life you're going to lead will be binding and harsh." He smiled at her, kinder, "but if you are willing to lead it, I will give you the opportunity."

Now here she is, sitting beside the sleeping Altaïr, her new master. Al-Mu'alim did not think twice on mentioning his name to her, and he told her of his achievements. How skillful and respected Altaïr is in the Brotherhood, quite possibly the most feared as well. At first, she was skeptical of the decision, knowing that Altaïr is only five years older than her, and the possibility that he will take advantage of her. But upon seeing him for the first time, she was stunned. He has an air of death around him, and his presence lingers in the space he occupies.

The said master twitches in his sleep, and it startles Ambra. Her gaze falls to him, taking a note of his physical appearance. His dark brown hair is cut short. His forehead is adorned with faint frown lines, a complimentary addition to his thick eyebrows. There is a scar over the right side of his lips - from a blade? She wonders. He has thin moustache and stubble that seems to be regularly shaved.

She wonders if he'd ask for her body tonight. Although she believes it is unlikely, as he has not even laid a hand on her, nor giving a gaze that lingers too long. He is just like Al-Mu'alim, but he is not his son - she remembers Al-Mu'alim mentioning that Altaïr lost his father before being inducted into the Brotherhood.

She sighs quietly, resting his chin atop of her knees. Whatever he wants to do to her, it is his decision. She has to accept it. This is your life now, she reminds herself, silently praying that her friends will have better life as well.

Altaïr wakes up an hour before dinner, slightly surprised to see her still awake. He does not say anything as he puts on his attire and leaves the room. He does not return until an hour later, knocking on the door and calls her name, "Ambra."

She opens the latch, and the assassin pushes the door open so slightly before slipping in. "Welcome back." She greets.

He only nods.

His late return is not without reason. He has brought food from the dining hall, handing a plate of cooked goat to Ambra, who hesitantly accepts. "Thank you." She shyly replies, unable to reveal that she is hungry.

She eats silently and quickly. It has been a long time since she eats something so heavily spiced, and despite the lack of tenderness, it is still a delicious cuisine.

Halfway done, she notices that Altaïr is sitting motionless on the chair. A cup in his hand, and he seems so content in thought, as if meditating. She finishes the goat, sucking her fingers clean, then stands up to clean the plate. Only then he glances at her.

Ambra places the plate in the bucket, fills it with water from the jug, and scrubs the surface with her oily fingers. Once it is clean, she dries it with a rag beside the clay jug, and places the plate on the shelf. She turns to him, "May I have a drink?"

"You may." The assassin replies shortly.

She takes a cup of water and downs it quickly, then returns to her spot on the carpet, folding and sitting on her legs. Altaïr turns to face her, and she thinks he is about to give a lecture.

"Tomorrow I will introduce you to the brotherhood."

Ambra's eyes widen.

"I cannot assure you what their reaction would be, but I believe it will lean negatively. After all, you're the only female here." Altaïr moves to sit down in front of her. "There are things I'd like to ascertain to you. Have you seen the courtesans in the garden?"

Ambra remembers the gorgeous women in colorful clothing, laughing and chatting with the assassins, while relaxing on the green grass. She sees them on her first day in the fortress, only a glimpse, and she adores them. The soft look in their eyes, the sultry smile, and the wave of their hands, all gestures of friendliness and promises of heaven. "Yes, I have." She replies.

"Everyone who lives in the fortress has a purpose. The courtesans' is entertainment. They are permitted to be touched by anyone in the fortress." Altaïr has a concerned look in his eyes, "They are also the only women in here."

She nods, "I know of their purpose, Altaïr."

"I believe you do, but here is the problem, Ambra, the courtesans are free to roam in the garden, and the men are eager to visit them. Never has a woman entered the fortress as an assassin." Oh, Ambra understands his concern now. "There will be those blinded by seeing a female presence among them, and they will be eager to hold you, especially if they know you are a servant. Therefore, I'd establish more rules and exceptions for you.

"I must emphasize that you are permitted only to me. If there are others who try to touch you with no permission, you are encouraged to hit them." Ambra must have had a surprised look on her face, because shortly Altaïr adds, "Do not worry. They are not your masters.

"You are allowed to socialize with them, but keep your distance.

"If they have done anything that you do not like, do not hesitate to tell me. No lies, no secrets, no manipulations."

Lastly, Altaïr adds, "I may not be able to watch over you all the time. There will be missions that I have to carry out for days. I pray that nothing bad happens when I'm gone, but should it happen, report to Al-Mu'alim. Do you understand?"

Ambra nods, "Yes, Altaïr."

"Very well. Now I will explain to you about the fortress."

Altaïr's explanation is spoken neatly and detailed. He talks about the sections of the fortress, where she can and cannot go, and where the training takes place. He explains the kinds of training, theoretical and methodical, and physical training. He adds about the ranks of the students and how to tell which is which by the look of their robes, and the weapons they are allowed to wield.

"You are a first ranked student, a novice. Your training would be in theory and hand-to-hand combat." He pauses for a while before adding, "I will train with you."

Altaïr tells Ambra about Masyaf. About the city, the people, the places inside and outside the city. The river and the oasis, and what lies beyond that.

"If you'd like to buy necessities, there are some coins in a box in the wardrobe. Help yourself to some."

The remark startles Ambra, "I... I'm allowed....?"

Altaïr frowns, "Yes. How else would you pay for food or clothes?"

Ambra stutters, "But... It's yours."

"And I am responsible for you, therefore Im paying for your needs." He replies. "It's...not much. I expect you'll use it wisely."

Being granted permission to Altaïr's valuable is too much for a servant. The slaves are usually not allowed to their master's belongings, and the punishment is severe; lashing, caning, or amputation of hand. Ambra is touched by how trusting Altaïr is to her, despite only meeting her for less than a day. Isn't he worried? What if his judgment is wrong?

Yet it seems as if Altaïr can see right through her. Whether she has a good intention or not, he sees the truth. It baffles her how he does it. Either he is really good at seeing people's true nature, or he does not know yet of how master usually treats servant.

With the explanation all finished and concluded, Altaïr ends the discussion. "We will always have a discussion after dinner. There are political information that you should know, especially if you are training as an assassin," the words send a spark of joy to her, "it is expected to know who your target is and what would come from it. Do you have any questions?"

"No, Altaïr."

"Then go and prepare to sleep."

By the instruction, she follows what he does: removing her effects. She takes off the hood, undoes the belt and the sash, and removing the outer tunic, then storing them in the wardrobe. She lets her hair off from the bun, letting the thick dark mane flow down to her back. When she is finished, she turns to see Altaïr lying down on his back, muttering a prayer.

She lies down on her side of the carpet, praying quietly, despite her racing heart. What if Altaïr asks for her first time? Yes, she has to be willing to give, but what if she is not ready? I don't think Im ready, she frowns. Has he been with other women before? Are they the courtesans? Is he -

A deep heave of breathing snaps her from her thought. She looks to the left to see Altaïr, eyes closed and breathes evenly, already slipping into a deep sleep. She mentally smacks herself for thinking indecently. After the courtesy that he has shown, how dare she thinks lowly of him?

She takes a deep breath, he is not master Jaqq, he is not him, he is not him, and she repeats the sentences in her head. He won't get me now. I belong to Altaïr now. I am safe. It's safe... It's safe...


	3. Chapter 3

The reality falls to Altaïr in the morning. He wakes up feeling more refreshed than yesterday. He stretches his body as far as he can, then glancing to his side, and he stops himself from having a heart attack. Ambra is lying on her side, back facing the wall, neatly tucked in her space on the carpet. Her bruised face looks better, with the cut lip healing, and she looks peaceful like this.

Sometimes Altaïr realizes he has taken things for granted, such as being born in male dominating culture, or to have a choice. What's her age again? Fifteen? He frowns, when he was fifteen, his only concern was to train harder than before, not worrying about who to serve and for what purpose.

So this is it, then? She will live with him for the rest of their lives, bound as master and servant? It is a new experience to him, and he fears for the responsibility - taking care of someone else's life.

Now how is he supposed to tell the others about this? Others have speculated that Al-Mu'alim favors him as a student, this will only confirm it, and he hates it. He sits up, and he is surprised as Ambra suddenly sits up as well.

Realization falls to her a few seconds later. Blushing, she looks at him, with her messy long hair and sleepy face. "I'm sorry - good morning, A-Altaïr."

Still not used to calling me by name, he takes note of it. "Did I wake you up?"

"No, no, I thought..." Her words drift off somewhere, "nothing. I'm sorry."

He stands up from the carpet and stretches some more. Judging from the sound outside, it is just after fajr, and the guards are changing shift. He heads to the wardrobe to get dressed.

Ambra stands up as well, but she chooses to stand behind him. He takes his outer tunic from the wardrobe, "Are you not going to get ready?" He asks, glancing at her from top to toe. She is only wearing the trousers and inner tunic, same as him, following what he did last night before sleeping.

"After you, Altaïr." She replies quietly. "May I help you get dressed?"

He scoffs, "It's not necessary."

He ties his sash quickly, then his belt follows, deftly hooking it from the back. The next is his armbraces. He slides on the right one first, tightening the straps with his teeth. The left one is a bit heavy, as it has metal plate over it, and the hidden blade. He puts it on swiftly, years of training enabling him to do so.

"Forgive me, Altaïr," he hears her speaking timidly, and he turns around to find her looking at his left hand, "but if I may ask, what happened to your finger?"

He looks at his left hand, where the ring finger is missing. "It's a tradition in the Brotherhood. Once you've been elevated to the second rank, you'll be given a hidden blade -" he flicks the stub of his ring finger, springing the hidden blade to view, and he clenches it between his middle and little fingers, "and to utilize it properly, a finger must be cut off. Ring finger, to be exact, as a symbol that your loyalty stays with the Brotherhood."

He sheaths the hidden blade back into its proper place, taking a note of her awestruck expression at the small demonstration.

He slides on his hood, "For today...just...stay here. The brethren haven't heard about you. I expect it'll be a shock to them."

"Yes, Altaïr." She replies, ever so obedient.

He puts on his holster, but emptying the throwing knives into the wardrobe. There is more in the armory to take and pile up anyway. "There's food in the shelf, so help yourself with some. I may return bringing more."

She nods, almost bowing down. Her gaze follows him as he heads to the door to put on his boots. How quiet, he thinks, wondering if she is like that because it is her trait or because it is her duty.

"You are free to speak your mind, Ambra." He says, strapping his boots, "there's no penalty to it, and I'd rather have you talking about what you think or feel than taking a wild guess."

Again, she nods. "Thank you, Altaïr."

"Lock the door while I'm away." He says before taking his leave.

In the already lively dining hall, Altaïr finds Malik listening to Rasit about something. Next to him is his brother, Kadar, shoving dates to his mouth. Malik notices Altaïr from the corner of his eyes, "Altaïr!" He calls.

Altaïr approaches, "Malik, Rasit, Kadar." He greets. "What are you talking about?"

Rasit grins, "Say, Altaïr, have you seen the new courtesan yet?"

Altaïr frowns, "Which courtesan?"

Malik waves his hand dismissively, "You're asking the wrong question to the wrong man, Rasit. He never paid attention to them."

"You're missing a lot, then, Altaïr." Rasit chuckles, "All teasing aside, according to Asma, there is a new courtesan in the fortress. Asma...is one of the courtesans. She wears yellow - never mind."

Altaïr feels his gut clenching. For the sake of Allah, let it be not Ambra...

"So last night I visited the garden to meet the new flower. But she is not there. Not one courtesans see her in the garden." Rasit continues, "Do you know what is more intriguing? Asma said the new courtesan came with Al-Mu'alim - dark hair, lovely skin tone, bright eyes, and really young. Fourteen or so. A bit too young for my taste, but there is always time for improvement."

Altaïr bites his tongue to avoid lashing out. They really are talking of Ambra...

"So? A missing courtesan?" Altaïr frowns.

Malik turns to Altaïr with a look of disbelief, "For a highly ranked assassin, you are not bright. The point is, if she is not in the garden, then either Asma lied or someone in the fortress is sleeping with her."

"All night, might I add." Rasit joins.

"And out of the garden." Malik has a grin on his face. "I always think Lina is the best flower, but if there is a new one, I don't mind seeing her."

Sometimes Altaïr forgets the mind of his brothers are connected to their groins. He shakes his head, "Whether she is present or not, there is plenty of courtesans in the garden." He sits down in front of Kadar, starting to fill his plate.

Rasit and Malik talk more to each other. They still have not dropped the subject of courtesans, but eventually they move to food and Masyaf, about the news of trading caravans that might arrive some days later, and some of their own complaints. Kadar passively listens to them, though the boy sees Altaïr from the corner of his eyes, thinking the older assassin will not notice.

After finishing his meal, and Rasit leaving, finally, Malik sits down beside Kadar. "Back to the topic of courtesans," Malik starts, and Altaïr grunts. "Hear me out for a while, will you? There is someone who wants to see you in the garden tonight, and I'm sure you won't regret it."

Altaïr shakes his head, "No, thank you."

"You haven't even heard her name yet."

"Alma? Nisa? Zainab?" Altaïr guesses.

"Talia!" Malik cuts in.

"Oh," Altaïr knows her. Talia wears light blue garment, and is well endowed in the chest and hips area. Contrary to the popular opinions of the brethren, Altaïr does not find her a very good companion, since she always takes matter to her own hands - a bad duet when he prefers to have control. He has heard of her reputation among the others, but still, he'd prefer the company of the quiet types of courtesans. The older ones, specifically, as they are quieter to be had.

Malik has that look of disbelief again, "That is your response?"

"I have no intention of meeting her, Malik."

Malik lowers his head and voice, "You have to learn how to relax, Altaïr."

"I am relaxed."

The answer is apparently funny to Kadar, who holds a chuckle in form of a smile. Malik shakes his head, "I can't believe it."

"Believe whatever you want then." Altaïr fills his cup with water and takes a drink.

"Is this about Al-Mu'alim? Did he give you another mission? Is that why you cannot meet Talia?" Malik starts a line of questions.

"No, I simply find her not suitable to my liking."

"Ah! Do not lie to me, Altaïr. You haven't touched a woman in months - how are you not frustrated?"

"For the last time, Malik, if I want to bed one, I'll do it. Right now... No. Give my apology to Talia when you see her."

Malik is quiet, eyes slightly squinting, as if judging Altaïr. "Kadar, go sit somewhere else." He suddenly says. The younger brother hesitates, but leaves nonetheless to sit in another table. Malik frowns at Altaïr, "Alright now, out with it."

"With what?"

"You're clearly hiding something."

"We are all hiding something, Malik."

"No, your jaw has been tensed since the moment you walked in. Your face is even uglier when you're deep in thought." Despite the insult, Malik does not break expression. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Altaïr looks at Malik, trying to ease his jaw to oppose Malik's accusation. But then again, he is not wrong. Altaïr really has something in his mind, but talking about it - especially after listening to Malik and Rasit's conversation about courtesans - feels really wrong. He opts to sigh.

"See? You're not the only one who can read people." Malik says, victorious. "So, tell me. I'm all ears."

"I...can't."

"Why not? Do you need help phrasing it? 'Malik, I have something to tell you' and off you go from there."

"It's not that simple."

Malik scoffs, "It is simple. Is it about a mission from Al-Mu'alim? Are you obliged to keep your mouth shut?"

Altaïr hesitates and opts to silence.

"Ah, silent treatment. I'm guessing correctly today." There is a grin on Malik's face. "There is...something that Rasit has not mentioned to you. What Asma said is true, there is a young girl in the fortress who came with Al-Mu'alim. But," Malik's tone of voice sounds concerning to Altaïr, "I went and asked Lina, and she said the new courtesan did come with Al-Mualim, but she left with you."

Altaïr unconsciously holds his breath.

"Now, I will not judge you. She might be six or seven years younger, but Im glad that you have found your match. But humor me, what does she look like? Of all the gorgeous flowers in the garden, why her?"

Altaïr sighs, "Malik, you're threading on a very personal path here."

"I am, now," Malik's voice turns to whisper, "no one will judge you for bedding a courtesan - they are too eager to smell the new flower, and certainly respect you for being the first in line -"

"Malik." Altaïr practically growls.

The hostility in Altaïr's eyes renders Malik quiet. "I apologize." He says quietly.

Altaïr heaves a heavy sigh. So the rumor has started. He has to stop it before anyone thinks anymore lowly of Ambra. He lowers his head to the table and whispers, "Come with me."

It is clear how eager Malik is for explanation. Altaïr can hear his footsteps following as they are heading to the western tower, back to the sleeping quarters. His mind is beyond restless, he keeps practicing the lines, how to explain the circumstance to Malik without making him lecturing him out of anger.

"You were half-right." Altaïr finally speaks as they are climbing the stairs to his floor. "There is a female leaving with me yesterday, but she is not a courtesan."

He knocks on the door of his room, "It's me." He says while assessing the confused stare of Malik. The door is unlocked, and he opens it, finding Ambra standing beside it, already dressed in her assassin clothes.

"Welcome ba-"

The door is slammed shut immediately before Ambra can finish her sentence, courtesy of Malik. He grabs Altaïr by the collar of his hood, expression of rage, "What is this? Who is she? Why is she dressed like that? Explanation now."

Altaïr pries Malik's hand off of him, "I'll give you one soon. Sit down. Ambra, you too."

Ambra nervously walks backwards to her side of the carpet, where she takes a seat almost in the corner. Malik sits down on the foot of the carpet. Altaïr lowers his hood and sits down on his side of the carpet, across Ambra.

"I see you've finally shut up." He mutters to Malik. "This is Ambra. Ambra, this is Malik. He's one of the instructors in the fortress. You may address him by name."

"Pleased to meet you, Malik." Ambra greets, nodding to Malik's direction.

"When you and the brethren began a rumor of a newly arrived courtesan, this is the truth." Altaïr pauses, thinking of the best words to explain Ambra to Malik. Of all these sentence, which one will invoke less wrath? 'This is Ambra, my servant' or 'Ambra is a recruit'?

Malik looks impatient by the seconds, and Altaïr huffs.

"Al-Mu'alim took her in two days ago. She is to join the Brotherhood as an assassin, but to do so, she needs to be supervised under an instructor. This is what Al-Mu'alim asked of me." Altaïr explains as best as he can.

Malik sneers, "He gave you a female student? A female student who lives in your room - and sleep on the same carpet! He married you two, didn't he?"

Altaïr exchanges a glance with Ambra, whom looks much more nervous than him. "He did no such thing, but our relationship is somewhat similar to marriage." He replies.

"Relationship?" Malik scoffs. "The cold-hearted man in the fortress has a relationship?"

Altaïr ignores his remark, "Al-Mu'alim gave her to me as a servant."

Malik throws his hands up, "Of course he did! He truly favors you, doesn't he?"

"No, we are all equal in his eyes. Malik -"

"I can give you a long list why having a servant is contradicting to our belief. You should be ashamed -"

"Don't you understand what I said? Al-Mu'alim allowed her to join the Brotherhood." Altaïr cuts Malik off. "He hands her to me as a student to look out for -"

"But to smoothen it out, she is also your servant." Malik comments.

"By Allah, would you rather have her be used by others?" Altaïr raises his voice, and for once, Malik stops himself from replying. He sighs, "Ive been thinking about this, tempted, even, to let her fall to another instructor's care. But it'll be as same as refusing a task or a gift from Al-Mu'alim."

Malik purses his lips, frowning deeply, "Don't you have a say in this?"

"Yes. I can return her to Al-Mu'alim, but she will be appointed to another instructor. Mind you, there is a chance he will give her to you." At those words, Malik's eyes widen.

"I'd rather not - but a servant, Altaïr -"

"A student." Altaïr rectifies.

Malik groans, "Either way, this is no place for a female."

"She is the one who asked to join," Altaïr glances at Ambra, whom has been keeping her head low, as they are debating. "You may speak freely, Ambra. This is concerning your life, not mine."

Ambra raises her gaze to look at Altaïr, then to Malik, whose expression shows surprise as he notices her features. "Your face -" Malik turns to Altaïr, "what happened?"

"Ask her." Altaïr gestures to Ambra.

Malik hesitantly looks at her, as if unsure if it is permitted to do so. "Ambra, yes?"

"Yes, Malik." She replies, keeping her eyes to him.

"What happened?"

Ambra bites her cheek, thinking, as if she has never been given an opportunity to speak her mind. "It was an assault. Two weeks ago, I smuggled myself out of Tarsus in the caravan of travelling merchants. They found me just two days ago. We fought, but Al-Mu'alim saved me." Her voice is laced with Turkish lilt, and Malik seems to take notice of it too.

"You ran away from Tarsus, is that what you're saying?" Malik confirms.

Ambra nods, "Yes, Malik."

"May I ask why?"

She sighs quietly, shoulders slumping and gaze lowering to the carpet. "I ran away from a slavery mill, because the master intended to have a son with me."

Malik's frown deepens, "Is that what I think it is? A place to breed slaves?"

"Yes," Ambra nods.

"I take it you were born there?"

"I was, yes."

Malik unconsciously hums, "Then why not bear a son for the master? It seems foolish for you to travel all this way just to avoid that."

Altaïr notices Ambra clenching her fists, "Once I did, he'd get rid of me, or I might be put to breeding." She replies as calmly as she can. "It's... The selected women who must be impregnated by selected men, be them the other slaves or the guards, and their duty is to produce the best quality for the mill."

Malik flinches, "Can't you fight back?"

"This is how I fight back." Ambra looks up at Malik. "My friends believe in me, that's why they helped me escape. My decision is final. I'd like to kill J-Jaqq." Altaïr notices she stutters whenever she says his name.

"Revenge?" Malik scoffs.

"Justice!" Ambra hisses. "You may not understand what it was like, but I can't stand idly and do nothing. My parents, my friends, we all suffered for all our lives. We have no rights to ourselves, even the guards can have their ways if they want to, we can't protect ourselves." She inhales, "J-J-Jaqq has done enough damage, and he is just one of the many mill owners. I'm surprised no one has heard of the place, even if they do, I wonder why they do nothing against it."

"Malik," Altaïr calls, averting his attention from Ambra's watery eyes, "our creed believes in fairness and equality. Even I'm still coming to terms with the reality, but Al-Mu'alim sees better. If she is a male, she won't have to explain her reason in joining the Brotherhood, in fact, she will begin training immediately."

"You can say that because you've slept with her." Malik retorts.

"I did not."

"He didn't." Ambra backs up Altaïr's answer.

"Of all people in the fortress, you're the first to know from me. You know it first handedly to be responsible for Kadar, this is not any different." Altaïr continues.

"But a female, Altaïr! It's the same as condemning her to death!" Malik raises his voice slightly, tensing in trying to keep it at acceptable tone.

"We are all condemned to death, why makes her any different?"

Malik stutters for an answer, "The brethren will devour her alive."

"Which is why she was given to me in the first place." Altaïr replies. Being a high ranking assassin has its perks, one of them is to be feared and respected by others. "Can you accept her place in the Brotherhood?"

Malik pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing, “My protest is meaningless. Theoretically, there are no rules saying female can't join the Brotherhood, but..." He looks at Ambra, frowning. "You understand the risk you're putting yourself into? Even in these fortress walls, there will be those who would do anything to belittle or harm you."

Ambra wipes the side of her face, "Nothing is worse than the mill. I'm sure I can take it."

"Your decision." Malik sighs heavily. He raises a finger to jab at Altaïr's direction, "you are in so much trouble. How are you going to explain this to the brethren?"

Altaïr shrugs, "That is why I need you here."

 

The training field in the fortress is filled with students, all ranks alike, following their instructors' commands. There is a ring in the center of the field, fence made of wood, where the students spar against each other, with or without a weapon. There are straw filled dummies placed in one side of the field, which used for target practice. There are wood logs stacked up in the corner for when students are required to demonstrate their strength by breaking those. A line of weapons, swords and lances, is placed by the ring. Two grinding stones beside it. There is a guarded path leading into the castle, where there is a library, the garden, and eventually Al-Mu'alim's quarter. A gigantic window marks where the Grand Mentor's quarter is, the one he uses to observe his students' trainings.

Under the shade of the western tower, four people stand. Ambra peeks from the corner, visibly scared. Altaïr is beside her, talking to Malik, and the still shocked Kadar. The younger brother of Malik takes the news of Ambra's recruitment lighter than Malik, but still looks uneasy. Altaïr is slightly glad that the boy's concern is not of her status as a servant, but of her well-being.

Altaïr assures himself. This is just another day in the Brotherhood. A new student comes in to join the training. Easy, right?

Malik has a deep frown on his forehead, "Whenever you're ready." He mutters.

Altaïr turns to Ambra, "Wait here." And he walks forth into the training field. The plan he has in mind is simple in theory. Gather all the instructors, introduce them to Ambra, and then introduce Ambra to the students.

The first instructor he seeks is Basir. The stocky man with bushy beard is looking at his students' demonstration of throwing knives. The poor dummies' armored chests are the target. Basir sees Altaïr, and immediately grins, "Altaïr! Come to see the practice? Or come to practice?"

Altaïr smiles, "Neither. I need to speak with you, Basir, urgently."

"Oh? What is so urgent?"

"About a task. I need the wisdom of all instructors."

Basir chuckles, "Is the task really that difficult that you require collective wisdom before acting?"

Altaïr nods, "More than you know."

"Very well." Basir points at one of his students, "Take command while I'm gone." He then follows Altaïr.

Altaïr heads to the right side of the field. The next instructor he sees is Rahman, who gladly follows. Next is Ahmed, then Majd, then Khalid, then Rauf and Labib, and eventually Abbas. The last one does not seem as glad as the others before.

"What could you possibly need from me?" Abbas asks, annoyed that Altaïr interrupts him.

"Your wisdom. It's regarding a task."

"Don't you have one yourself?"

"I require yours in this matter, Abbas." Altaïr lowers his voice.

Abbas thinks for a while, before deciding, "Alright, let's get it over with." He follows Altaïr.

With all instructors in the training field following Altaïr to the meditation room, the students are left to train alone. Their whispered questions are loud to deaf ears, yet they try to conceal them by pretending not asking. Altaïr opens the door and lets the instructors in. By the last one entering, he closes the door.

Malik is standing in the corner, Kadar by his side, and Ambra behind them. Altaïr sits down, the others follow, but Malik does not.

"Thank you for your time." Altaïr opens.

"What task and how difficult is it that you require all of us to be here?" Majd asks.

Altaïr takes a deep breath, "My fellow brethren, yesterday Al-Mu'alim has given me something. A task, in form of a gift."

No interruption, very well.

"He has given me a servant." Altaïr heaves the words, waiting for a response. So far only frowns.

"Servant as in...?" Majd asks again.

"The person who offers service, yes." Altaïr replies.

Rahman lets out a hum, "That is a wonderful gift. You have climbed the ranks in a matter of years, it is only fair - like an appraise for your hard work."

"A 'servant' is a bit too much, don't you think?" Ahmed asks. "Don't you mean someone who cleans your room?"

"Either way, it is a 'servant'. It's just a matter of the lexicon." Rahman replies, then he looks at Altaïr. "So what is the task?"

Altaïr clears his throat, "The task... is that the servant is to be trained as an assassin."

"Ah, so an apprentice." Rahman chuckles. "In short, he's a student tasked with serving your needs. Just like the workers of the fortress."

"He has been initiated then?" Khalid asks. "If he has, then he can start practicing immediately."

"The problem is," Altaïr holds his breath, "the servant is not a male."

The first complain comes from Abbas - figured, Altaïr scoffs, "A female? A female servant, is that what you're saying? Have you lost your mind?!"

Malik gives Altaïr an acknowledging look, as if telling him that he knows this is going to happen. Thankfully, Basir tries to calm Abbas down.

"Is this true?" Basir asks, "Al-Mu'alim gave you a female servant to be taught in the way of assassin?"

"It's the other way around. He gave me a student, but in form of a servant. Hence, a task in form of a gift." Altaïr corrects him before adding, "I did not ask anything from him, certainly did not ask for this."

"But why would he do such thing?" Khalid asks.

"Because he favors him, that's for sure." Abbas sneers.

"Would you rather have this responsibility, Abbas?" Altaïr retorts, "This is more than training a student, this is having to be responsible for her, in this life and the hereafter. My deed in this world would mean nothing if I mistreat her."

To that remark, Abbas is silent.

Rahman raises his hand a bit, "By 'servant', you mean a servant whose life you own? Not the kind of servant as in someone who works for you? In other word, a slave?"

"That is, indeed." Altaïr replies carefully, noticing the frown lines on Rahman's forehead. "What are your opinions about this?" He asks the others who are too stunned to think.

"With all due respect to Al-Mu'alim's command, for an assassin to have a slave is actually contradicting our belief." Majd starts. "We believe in freedom and fairness. A slave has neither, she is bound to your will, Altaïr."

"Yet giving her freedom also means condemning her to the brethren's mercy. Allah knows what they would do to her." Khalid replies.

"Can we not address her as slave? The term is derogatory. A 'servant' sounds a bit more dignified." Labib comments.

Rahman clears his throat, attracting attention to him, "Knowing Al-Mu'alim, he always has a reason for whatever he does. If I may guess, he certainly has time to think to whom she goes to. Let's say, her priority is to learn, then of course she should learn from the best." He nods towards Altaïr, "You are an eight ranked assassin, a combat instructor, and a skilled student for sure. I'd say the servant is of young age, therefore she'll need someone who is not too old - such as ourselves -" most of the instructors nod in agreement.

"Not to mention she needs someone void of sexual needs." Abbas sneers.

"Quite true, or else she would only be an outlet of pleasure for the master." Rahman continues. "Why, Altaïr, the whole fortress knows you are immune to the seduction of the angels in the garden. That's perfect. That concludes why Al-Mu'alim chose to give her to you."

"If I may ask," Basir interrupts, "why would she choose to be with the Brotherhood? This is not a sanctuary."

Altaïr replies, "She escaped from a slavery mill because the owner wanted to impregnate her. She is only fifteen."

A collective gasp and muttering fill the room. "What a madman!" Khalid exclaims. "Did she, Altaïr? Did she bear him a child?"

"She escaped before he could do further harm."

Another collective gasp, but of relief.

Rahman clears his throat, "Then we have found the reason why Al-Mu'alim took her in. The same way why he took the young boys from the street and trained them to be as we are right now, to have a better life."

"Yes, but a woman, nonetheless." Abbas adds.

"True, but also a human. If Al-Mu'alim did not take her, he would have left her to die. If he did take her, the only place in the Brotherhood for her would be the garden - knowing what she has been through, certainly Al-Mu'alim has the heart to not let her be there." Rahman looks at his fellow instructors, "I have no problem with her presence here. If she is eager to learn and hone our creed, then she is welcomed."

"I object." Abbas says, "Have you considered what the brethren would do to her? She is a female servant."

"Which is why Al-Mu'alim gave her to Altaïr." Rahman interjects.

"You cannot protect her all the time, Altaïr -"

"Then we'll protect her." Rahman cuts Abbas' words, "We do not stand idly while our students are harassing each other, do we? We'll do the same to her, as we do to our students."

Abbas is fuming. He lets his frustration out in a heavy sigh, "Very well. You have the point, Rahman." He admits, defeated.

"Thank you, Rahman, Abbas." Altaïr finally says.

"I...share the same concern with Abbas," Basir shares his thought, "but Rahman is right. Who are we to defy the Grand Mentor's words? If she wishes to belong in the Brotherhood, then we might as well give her a chance."

Majd agrees, "I hope you're able to treat her with fairness, Altaïr."

Khalid nods in agreement, "I'll tell my students to lay their eyes off of her."

Rauf shrugs, "To tell you the truth, the girls of Masyaf have been asking if theyre allowed to be an assassin or not. I have no objection to the idea, actually, though I understand how concerning it is."

Labib chimes in, "The Damascus bureau has female informants. Its only a matter of time before we have a female assassin. I didnt expect today will be it."

Ahmed, who has been silent during the discussion, finally speaks up, "I agree with her presence, but I have to ask one thing."

"Yes?" Altaïr almost forgets his existence in the room.

"The girl is in this very room, isn't she?" Ahmed turns to Malik, a pleasant smile on his face. "I'm surprised none of you notice that Kadar is here. Malik, aren't you tired of standing up?"

"Why? I like standing up." Malik chuckles.

Altaïr shakes his head disbelieving. Ahmed always has the sharpest eyes in the room. He lets Malik and Kadar move aside to reveal Ambra. She has a small smile on her face, nodding down respectfully to the mentors.

"My name is Ambra," she says as the instructors are muttering under their breath, "pleased to meet you."

"Pleased to meet you as well," Rahman replies. "I see you're already wearing a uniform. Are you ready for your training?"

Ambra glances at Altaïr, who looks extremely glad that he finally loses a streak of frown on his forehead. She smiles thankfully, "Yes, I am."


	4. Chapter 4

Months have passed since Ambra stays with the Brotherhood. Altaïr notes that her presence does not raise too much alarms like he has anticipated, more like raising curiosity. The next day after her introduction to the students, Kadar asked Altaïr if he and his friends could chat with her. It turns out that most of the students are wondering why she chose to be an assassin.

Altaïr notes that Ambra is beginning to relax around him. This morning, he has woken up to find her still sleeping soundly, not even flinching when he moved on the carpet they share. Her facial expression and tensed shoulders are more relaxed as well. Although he cannot say the same for himself.

Some nights he'd wake up, and he'd see her sleeping. He'd replay the story that she has told about her life, about the slavery mill, about the evil things that slaves have to endure. Of all the lives she could have, being an assassin is her choice - a poor choice, according to Altaïr. She could ask to be a courtesan, or simply be a servant for him, yet she wants to be an assassin. Has she thought this through? Or is she clouded by revenge that she cannot see the future that she leads?

Her life in the fortress is made secured. She does not need to climb down to the river for hygiene or bladder purpose, instead she can immediately heads downstairs to the bathhouse. It is a large chamber with tiled floor and walls, the ceiling is tall, and there is a large bath in the center. There are partitioned spaces with individual bath that can only be used by higher ranked assassins. Altaïr has received one after ascending to eighth rank. He gives Ambra the freedom to use it whenever she likes, while himself prefers the large bath that accommodates to his height better than the smaller bath.

For meal purpose, Ambra is welcomed to join her brethren in the dining hall. It is a routine that has made Altaïr glad, because he can see her blending in with the others. Most of them take their liberty to come up to her and talk. Kadar is the friendliest one which, according to Malik, is caused by his dream of having a younger sibling. At first, Altaïr feared that they would say something awful, or something that a girl should not hear. But he has heard nothing of it. They approach her to talk about Masyaf, about their experience, about some things that happened in the lives - and Altaïr still wonders why.

During today's breakfast, Altaïr watches as Sofyan tells Ambra his first experience of riding a horse. He held the rein too tight, causing the horse to stand up on its hind feet, and he fell flat on his butt. "And then Altaïr looked at Hamzah, and he said 'better not hold the rein too tight'."

The small group around Sofyan laughs, even Ambra laughs as well, and Altaïr smiles on the side of his face upon recalling the event. A smile that he quickly stops when Malik sits down in front of him, grinning widely.

"I have good news - were you smiling?" Malik suddenly frowns.

"What good news?" Altaïr asks, trying to divert his question.

"Something... Later. Why were you smiling? And why did you stop? Did my presence cause you to stop?"

"Tell me about the news. Is it a mission?" Altaïr bites on a date.

Malik does not buy it, "You were smiling before I sit here."

"How astute of you, Malik."

Malik turns around to see what is behind him, and he sees it. "Aah..." He turns back to Altaïr. "I see she has warmed up."

"Yes, she has." Altaïr finishes his date.

"I told you, just give her time and everything will go well. Our brethren are not all vicious after all." Malik grabs a piece of fish in front of him, "Kadar asked when she would be permitted to spar with the others."

Altaïr looks up to Malik, "She's not ready yet. She needs to fix her posture and works on her strength. Have you seen her endurance? She'd run out of breath before the round ends."

Malik chuckles, "You're so worried about her."

"I worry about all of my students, Malik."

"True, true, but without a practice, she won't know what to do when the real fight happens. I say let's spar to show her how it's done." There is a smile on the corner of Malik's mouth.

"I'm not ready for a disappointment." Altaïr smirks, "but I take your offer."

"Good. Now I have good news." Malik takes a bite of his fish, swallowing before speaking. "Two targets in Jerusalem -"

"NO." Altaïr cuts in sternly.

"Hear me out, will you?" Malik insists, "Two targets, quick kill, no need to stay more than a day - but if we need to, we'd sleep in the rooftop garden."

Altaïr still remembers his experience in Jerusalem. He can feel his muscles tensing from hearing the city's name spoken. But this is another mission, and he would not be alone. At least he could share the pain - he glances at Malik, it will be twice the pain, he thinks. "Did it specify us?"

"Yes, the rafiq sent a pigeon yesterday, saying that he would like you to be assigned with the mission as well."

"As well?"

"The order from Al-Mu'alim only says my name, but he said to bring another assassin with me since it's Jerusalem. So I'll bring you." Malik chews his fish and swallows. "You must have left an impression to the rafiq that he personally asked for you."

"When do we leave?" Altaïr ignores Malik's comment.

"Soon. Tonight or tomorrow at dawn."

"Tomorrow it is then."

 

The training today is still as usual. Malik apparently is eager to spar, so Altaïr asks Tholeb and Hamzah to demonstrate a hand-to-hand sparring for a warm up. They are a bit overexcited, mainly because they have not made progress with throwing knives - mediocre, as Altaïr so bluntly puts it. He glances at Ambra who is standing beside him, "Observe and learn, Ambra." He orders.

"Yes, Altaïr." She replies. Another change in her, she has begun to use his name boldly, not as timidly as before.

Tholeb and Hamzah place their weapons in the rack before going into the sparring ring. Altaïr stands outside, acting as a referee. "Are you ready?" He asks.

Both Tholeb and Hamzah nod, "Yes!" They say, almost at the same time.

Tholeb is the first to make the move. He lunges forward, ready to punch Hamzah, but Hamzah manages to evade by moving backwards. Tholeb's fist punches thin air.

Hamzah kicks forward, Tholeb deflects him. Hamzah throws a punch that almost hits Tholeb's left cheek, and Tholeb replies with another punch that hits Hamzah's jaw.

"One-zero." Altaïr mutters. Hamzah chuckles, fixing the position of his fists, then starts attacking. An uppercut to Tholeb. "One-one."

Sofyan is leaning against the wooden fence of the ring, looking as amused as Hamzah and Tholeb fight it to their hearts' contents. Altaïr is muttering the score, his eyes are watching their movements, making a mental note on what to comment afterward. Ambra gulps, hands clutching the fence until her fingertips turn white.

This is a fight? She recalls what the slaves said about her father, that he died fighting in a duel. His opponent was of a plantation. They did not have a choice, as the slaves said, either fight or be killed.

In the time that she has been here, she has learned from Altaïr that an assassin's life is constantly at stake. There is almost no room for anything else, since the Brotherhood should be the first priority above all else. She has to fight like her father used to fight - although she does not know how he did so - but he fought to live.

He fought to live.

She takes a deep breath and exhales quietly. If she can fight for her life against the merchants, then she can fight again.

Tholeb and Hamzah are panting and sweating profusely now, yet neither shows they are ready to give up. Hamzah is attacking relentlessly, and Tholeb evades and deflects easily. Tholeb throws a punch that collides with Hamzah's jaw, yet at the same time, Hamzah has a foot behind Tholeb's. When he pulls his foot, Tholeb staggers backward and falls on his butt. Hamzah staggers as well, but manages to recover before falling.

"Done!" Altaïr calls it a stop.

Hamzah is rubbing his jaw, offering a hand to help Tholeb up. "That was good."

"Yes. You have a quick pair of feet, brother." Tholeb grins.

Tholeb and Hamzah climb out of the ring, facing Altaïr for evaluation. "Fifteen-eighteen." He says, "Hamzah wins."

Hamzah throws his fist in the air, "Yes!"

"Tholeb, your defense is good, each punch was strong and precise. But you're not quick enough. Try working those feet and let out some kicks every now and then. Hamzah, your stamina is admirable. You're quick on the feet, but you're not precise enough. You're lucky Tholeb isn't as quick as you, or he could have beaten you early. Next time, calculate your attacks." Altaïr gives his evaluation. Both of his students are huffing, but grinning from ear to ear, as if the pent up frustration has been released in form of violence.

From the other side of the ring, Malik is seen removing his hood. He has removed his belt and armbrace. He has a smug grin on his face as he enters the ring, and his students are suddenly cheering.

"A challenge?" Sofyan says, amused. "A spar between instructors!"

"A what?" Ambra asks, turning her head to him.

"Malik is going to spar against another instructor. This is going to be entertaining." Sofyan takes a step backwards from the fence. "Move a bit, Ambra. Instructors sparring tends to be...brutal."

Ambra does as Sofyan says, stepping backward. She glances to Altaïr, surprised to see him removing his holster and hood. The challenge is for him, her eyes are widened.

Altaïr turns to Ambra, "Hold out your hand," he says, and he places his hood in her arms. He removes his belt, and she takes it. "Malik comes up with a challenge. This is going to be educational." He explains, placing his armbraces in Ambra's arms, whom now hugs his effects to prevent them from falling to the ground.

When Altaïr climbs into the ring, the students in the field turn their eyes from their training. Altaïr against Malik. They begin to gather around the fence, gaining their instructors attention as well. Ambra gulps again. She has listened to Al-Mu'alim's story of Altaïr's skills in combat, and she is about to see it now.

"Ahmed! Be our referee!" Malik calls out to the fellow instructor who is watching from outside the ring. Ahmed replies with a chuckle.

Altaïr is stretching his muscles. Fists clenching, he turns his head until a cracking sound pops from his neck, then he gets ready. Ambra notices his posture is the same posture that he has been teaching to her, and she observes diligently.

Compared to Altaïr's strong posture, Malik's is more fluid, yet stable. They wait for Ahmed to give the signal.

"Fight!" Ahmed shouts once.

Altaïr is the first one to attack, and Malik quickly deflects his punch, only to meet with his other fist. They fight in close range, punching and kicking, dodging and deflecting, as if they know which attack will come afterwards. Malik lands the first score with a kick to the chest.

Altaïr wipes the sweat from his brows with his sleeve. "Not bad, Malik."

Malik shrugs, "I can't say the same for you, though."

Then, punches after punches are flown to each other without end. As if it can't get any worse, Altaïr suddenly tackles Malik to the ground and lands a loud punch to his ear. Malik tries to kick him off, but Altaïr is already up on his feet and retreating before the kick can hit him.

"That actually hurts!" Malik protests.

"That means you're weak -" Altaïr evades as Malik suddenly kicks him.

The spar has gone for more than a minute, yet it feels like it has been gone for hours. Both Altaïr and Malik are panting, their tunics are damp with sweat, clinging to their skin. But neither shows tiredness.

"He's holding back." Sofyan whispers to Ambra.

"Altaïr?" Ambra asks.

"Yes, he could have beaten Malik by now. It's like he's plotting something."

Ambra frowns, looking towards Altaïr and his swift movements. His brows are furrowed in all seriousness, and a small smirk is etched on his lips. He starts kicking with left foot, Malik deflects, and continues with the right foot, which is deflected again. But then he kicks with the left foot again, and it becomes a battle between kicking and defending.

"That's a waste of movement." Sofyan comments quietly.

Malik pants harder after successfully deflecting Altaïr's kick. He sees him ready to land another kick, and automatically deflects, only to be surprised that the kick lands higher than before. Malik is unable to deflect as Altaïr kicks him across the face.

"Oh that's why!" Sofyan exclaims.

Malik staggers to the side, unable to defend himself, and already prepares for the worst. The crowd is cheering.

But Altaïr does not continue his attack on Malik. He stands still, smiling smugly, holding the strong posture, waiting for Malik to gain his composure. Malik lets out a chuckle, "I didn't see that coming."

Malik suddenly lunges forward, grabbing Altaïr around the waist, and bringing him down. The two are now wrestling. Malik tries to grip Altaïr's left hand, only to be thrown easily. Altaïr grabs Malik around the neck and holds him in a deadlock. Malik manages to throw a punch to Altaïr's eye that helps him escape.

The fight is now dirtier. Both assassins are ready to head butt each other. Ambra watches, slightly in horror, as the more brutal fight results in Altaïr being cornered to the fence and Malik shoves him hard until his back hits it. As if it is just a playful remark, Altaïr comes forward with his own attacks. Both instructors are now hitting each other with a smirk on their faces.

"Done!" Ahmed shouts from outside the ring, and both Malik and Altaïr freeze before dropping their fists. They are panting. Altaïr wipes his forehead with his sleeve, while Malik spits blood on the ground.

"Well?" Malik huffs. "Who wins, Ahmed?"

Ahmed shakes his head, "Honestly, well done, you two. If I had not known any better, Altaïr, well done in using your feet to advantage. Malik, I admire your stubbornness. That's quite a stamina that you have."

"Thank you, now the score, please." Malik rushes him.

"Such impatience. Thirty one and thirty two." Ahmed replies. "Altaïr wins."

Malik looks at Altaïr with such disgust, "One point -"

"You've certainly has improved, Malik. The last time we sparred, you were ten points behind." Altaïr feels a prickle in his nose. He wipes it, and his finger is stained with blood.

Malik snickers, "Next time it won't be so easy, Altaïr."

"I'm looking forward to it."

Both of them climb out of the ring and are greeted by their students. Malik has a bruise on the side of his forehead from where Altaïr kicked him, and he seems to have bitten his inner lip accidentally, because he is spitting blood. Altaïr returns with his own wounds. His nose is bleeding from where Malik head-butted him, his right eye is a bit dark and swollen from where Malik punched him, and yet he is still smirking.

Ambra hands him his effects, only to be waved by him, "Come with me." He orders. "Sofyan, practice your sword with Hamzah and Tholeb. I'll return shortly."

"Yes, Altaïr." Sofyan replies.

Ambra follows Altaïr, walking beside him, but with more haste to catch up with him. He is pinching the bridge of his nose. The blood is dripping to his mouth.

"That looks painful." Ambra comments.

"It is. He's hard-headed after all." Altaïr replies. He goes into the bathhouse, and Ambra follows. He immediately heads into his part of the bathhouse, opening the partition to let Ambra comes in, then closes it. "Put those stuff on the bench," he orders.

Ambra places Altaïr's effects on the bench. She watches him pacing to the shelf to take one towel, and uses it to hold his nose with. He groans.

"Help me remove my tunics, Ambra." He says, then quickly adds. "I need your help with something."

Ambra walks behind him to remove the sash first. The red fabric is then placed on the bench. She then grabs the hem of his outer tunic and pulls it up. Altaïr lowers himself and drops the hand that is holding the towel to his nose, letting her remove the tunic.

"My head first, then the other hand." He says.  
Ambra does as he wants. She pulls the tunic off of his head, then ends with removing it from the other hand that is hanging idly beside him. That is when she notices what is wrong. "Your left arm, what happened?"

Altaïr chuckles, "Malik happened."

Ambra helps removing the inner tunic, which is more difficult to do, since it is long sleeved. Eventually it can be removed with an addition of grunting from Altaïr.

Altaïr is standing bareback in front of her. The first thing she notices is his muscled chest and abdomen. Thin scars adorn his torso, although not quite visible, they are there. Ambra blushes, immediately turning her head away. Altaïr notices it, and he clears his throat, looking at her apologetically. He presses the towel against his nose again. "It seems that I have dislocated my shoulder. I need your help to pop it back."

Ambra nods, "Just tell me what to do." She turns to him, but keeping her head low. To this, Altaïr chuckles.

"You must have had a glimpse of the brethren without clothes in this bathhouse. Why are you shy now?" He asks, voice rather calm and unbothered, and slightly muffled by the towel.

Ambra shakes her head, "I don't - not comfortable."

"Very well." Altaïr replies. "Now hold my arm and help me lie down."

Ambra holds Altaïr's lower arm steady as he lowers himself to the floor to lie flat on his back against it. When he has lied against the cold tiles, she places his arm down by his side carefully. "What should I do now?" She asks, only now noticing the weird angle of his left shoulder.

"First, remove your boots." He instructs through gritted teeth.

Ambra quickly obeys. She removes her boots and places them nearby.

"Move my left arm slightly away from my body."

She picks his arm up and carefully move it.

"Yes, stop there. Good." He takes a deep breath. "Now, push your leg against my armpit, hold my left hand, and then pull gently - but strongly. No sudden movement."

Ambra awkwardly does so. She presses the sole of her right feet against his hairy armpit, stifling her own laughter from the ticklish sensation. She uses one hand to hold Altaïr's hand around the thumb, immediately blushes from the contact, as she brings the hand straight to the front of her breasts. His palm is rough and calloused to the tips, and he holds her rather strongly. The missing ring finger feels weird to her.

"Two hands, Ambra." He huffs.

She wraps the other hand around his wrist. "Like this?" She asks.

"Yes." Altaïr inhales deeply. "I pray you would never have to feel a dislocated shoulder, Ambra. It is excruciating."

"What exactly did Malik do?" Ambra waits for his signal.

"I must have pulled too quickly when he pinned my hand. I didn't feel the pain until after it's over." He blows on the towel, then sniffs violently. "Now pull, Ambra."

Carefully, Ambra pulls Altaïr's arm further away from himself. Using her foot to push herself further away, she feels the strain in his arm, and he clenches tightly around her hand.

"Stronger!" He hisses.

But the length of her foot cannot help pushing herself any further. She has pulled his hand as far as she could. Altaïr has his eyes closed, frowning, possibly biting down a groan. She decides to yank the arm sharply to her direction.

He practically growls in pain as a loud 'pop' reverberates against her foot. "Are you alright?" she asks, worried for the strength he uses to hold on to her hand. Slowly, he removes his death grip around her hand.

"Yes - thank you." Altaïr immediately sits upright. He rolls his shoulders and bends his left arm. Then he straightens it to the side and to the front, testing it.

Ambra stands up to take another towel from the shelf. She dips half of it in the pool, then returns to sit down in front of him. "Here," she offers the towel to him.

He removes the towel that he is using for his nose, seeing that it has been stained by blood. "Do you know how to treat nosebleed?" He asks, taking the towel she is offering.

"No - Im sorry..." She answers. "Your eye -"

"It doesn't hurt. Don't worry." He replies with a small smile, wiping his nose with the wet side of the towel. He sighs, relieved, seeing the blood has stopped dripping. "You just have to stuff your nose with cloth and wait for the blood to stop on its own. If it doesn't, and it hurts to breathe, there is a chance that your nose is broken."

The tip of his nose is red, and she smiles at the sight. "Do you get hurt often?"

Altaïr nods, "It's the risk. This scar, for example," he points at the scar running down his lips, "I received it from sparring. And this one," he points at a deep scar on the front of his left shoulder, "is from an enemy arrow."

"And those?" she glances at the numerous thin scars across his torso. Eyes darting quickly to register the scars on the strong body of the assassin before returning to his eyes.

Altaïr follows Ambra's gaze to his torso, hand touching the scars to feel the skin slightly rugged. "Sword fights, mostly, or from throwing knife. This one is from when I slipped and fell from a rooftop in Masyaf," he points to the right side, where a long scar etches there. He chuckles, "Labib told me not to run in the rain, and this is for disobeying him. When I was your rank, being wounded, scarred, bruised, or sore is a daily routine." He dabs the wet towel against his bruised eye, hissing at the contact. "Even during missions, there will always be a possibility that I'd get hurt or killed. It's important to avoid both, or Id risk exposing the Brotherhood to the world. My tunics, please, Ambra."

Ambra stands up to reach for Altaïr's tunics on the bench. The older assassin stands up as well, rolling his shoulders again, before taking one tunic from her hand.

"I have to leave for a mission tomorrow." He informs, putting on the tunic. "Me and Malik will leave to Jerusalem in the morning. While I'm gone, keep the room locked, the window too." He slides on the second tunic.

"How long will you be gone?" she asks, holding the red sash.

"Two weeks." He takes the red sash and ties it around his waist. Ambra is already holding his belt.

Altaïr wraps the belt over the sash, hooking it behind his back swiftly. Ambra admires his movement, knowing she still has so much to learn - even she has to hook her belt from the front first before twisting the hooks to the back. She hands him his hood.

Altaïr takes it, but holding out a hand to stop her from handing him another effect. "You don't have to do that." He says.

Ambra looks confused, "But... This is what master and servant do."

Altaïr frowns, "Helping the master getting dressed is the servant's duty?"

"One of the many. Unless you don't want me to - I'm sorry." Ambra adds quickly.

"No, don't be." Altaïr puts on his hood, still frowning. “You may place these towel in the basket over there, Ambra."

 

After training ends, Ambra follows Altaïr, as usual, as he is heading to the castle for a briefing with Al-Mualim. Upon entering the castle, Ambra can see the scholars between the numerous bookshelves, talking and reading. One of them is writing on the table. She watches them going on with their activity, it must be wonderful, she thinks. They get to read all these books all day...

Altaïr stops her before climbing the stairs to Al-Mu'alim's quarter, "Wait here." He instructs, and leaves her standing on the bottom of the stairs. The guards are glancing towards her, briefly, before turning their glances to anywhere else.

She stands still in her place, heaving a sigh as Altaïr has disappeared to the second floor. She hears the familiar voice of Al-Mu'alim, but cannot catch whatever he is saying.

"Psst!"

A shushing. She looks confused. She has made sure not to make any sound that may disturb the scholars, did I offend someone? She wonders.

"You on the stairs! Hey!"

The hushed whisper comes again, and Ambra turns herself to look. On top of the first section of the stairs is the entrance to the garden. She has to stand on her toes to look at who calls her. Against the gate of the garden, she counts, five courtesans are looking at her.

"Yes, you! Come here!" One of them dressed in yellow is calling for her.

Ambra looks around before quietly climbing on the stairs, "Yes?" She asks in whisper.

"Oh my, you were right. There's a female assassin." The courtesan dressed in purple chirps.

"Come here, honey, we just want to talk to you." The courtesan in yellow calls again, still whispering. "Crouch here, or those men upstairs can see you."

Ambra comes up to the gate, crouching in front of it, as the courtesans are sitting down as well. "What's your name, girl?" Asks the courtesan in red.

"Ambra." The answer comes almost without sound.

"We saw you before but we didn't think you'd be an assassin - and oh my, you came with Altaïr." The purple courtesan says. "I'm Nisa, by the way. Lower the hood, honey, we'd like to look at you."

Ambra hesitates. She turns her head to the balcony of the second floor, making sure that neither men upstairs are looking her way. She lowers her hood slightly, only letting the front of her head shows.

"Oh she's really a girl." The courtesan in red chirps again. "My, are you pretty... No wonder Altaïr fancies you."

"What?" Ambra's brows furrows.

"Have some manners, Lina." The courtesan in light blue hisses. "I'm Talia, darling. This is Asma," she points at the courtesan in yellow, "this rude one is Lina, and this is Zainab." The courtesan dressed in brown smiles. "So what are you, darling? Are you really an assassin?"

"I'm...training to be one." Ambra answers, pulling her hood back, but leaving more space to be able to look at the courtesans.

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"You staying with Altaïr?"

"What -"

"Oh my, have you killed anyone?"

Ambra is lost in their unending questions, she opts to stutter in confusion. Talia cuts in, "Hush, you're scaring her, girls."

"Sorry - I mean, we haven't seen a female assassin before. Are you alright? Did they touch you?" Nisa asks.

"I'm alright. No one is hurting me." Ambra replies, eyes wide in confusion.

"Where did you come from, girl?" Asma asks, leaning against the gate.

"Tarsus."

"I've been there before. Not that good, but not that bad either." Lina chirps in. "How did you end up here? As an assassin, nevertheless."

"I - uh... Al-Mu'alim took me in."

"And assigned you to his favorite assassin. How lucky." Talia comments. "You have no idea the questions we'd like to ask you, but I think those men will be finished anytime soon, so answer something for us - and be honest - alright, darling?"

Ambra nods hesitantly, "Y-yes?"

Talia motions her to get closer to the gate, and Ambra leans forward. "How is Altaïr in bed?"

Ambra's face is burning by the question as if someone lights a fire in front of her. She turns to look at Talia, who has a curious smile on her beautiful face, "What do you mean?"

"I think you know what we mean, honey." Asma winks.

"He likes to dominate, doesn't he?" Nisa asks. "We don't mean to pry, I mean, he rarely comes here -"

"When he does, he doesn't ask for more. Unlike some." Lina sighs happily, looking up to the balcony. Ambra blushes upon knowing which of the three men upstairs that she is talking about.

"We'd ask Mirah, but she has forgotten how he feels. So tell us, entertain us, how is he sexually?" Talia urges.

Ambra smiles weakly, scratching the side of her upper arm, "I can't answer that."

The courtesans click their tongues almost at the same time. "Wait, has he touched you?" Talia asks again.

Ambra smiles apologetically, "He is too kind and polite to lower himself as so."

"Aaaah..." Say the courtesans, now at the same time.

"Oh, they're almost finished." Asma suddenly says. "Dear, you better come chat with us sometimes. Go now, go, go."

Ambra turns around, quickly heading down to the bottom of the stairs, as the courtesans hurriedly trying to lay casually around the gate. She feels her cheeks flushed from the line of questioning, and her heart flutters. There is something familiar about the courtesans that reminds her of home -

What are you talking about, this is your home now. Ambra corrects herself. She bites the inner of her lower lip, waiting for the unpleasant sensation in her chest to ebb away. She realizes this is the first contact she has with other women in the fortress. It brings back the painful memory of her friends, their expressions, their activities together. She sighs heavily.

"Did it take too long?" The voice of Altaïr startles her. She practically flinches, does not even heard his footsteps.

She shakes her head, unable to look at him with the still flushed cheeks, "No."

Altaïr cocks his head to the side, "Very well. Let's head back to the compound."

 

In the room, Altaïr prepares his effects for tomorrow. He sits down on the chair, sharpening his hidden blade, while Ambra is rearranging the wardrobe. Every day there are workers of the fortress that will clean the clothes of the assassins, and they will place them in a room beside the bathhouse to be retrieved. Altaïr used to take his clothes on his own, but now Ambra takes the initiative to retrieve the clothes after her bath.

"The stain still won't come off," she looks at Altaïr's tunic, where a stain of blood now decorates the sleeves.

"It's almost impossible to take off once dried." he comments.

Ambra glances at her belt that is lying inside the wardrobe. She has to admit, it is not pleasant to be worn. The leather is thick, heavy, and suffocating. She recalls Al-Mu'alim gave it to her, a newly made belt from the armory.

Altaïr glances at her, "What's on your mind?"

"Oh - nothing." She replies, rather surprised for his unexpected question. It has been a startling moment, she recalls, as Altaïr will ask what she is thinking out of the blue. She is convinced by now that he can somewhat read minds.

Or read people, which is more logical.

"Actually," Ambra adds, hesitating, as Altaïr continues sharpening the blade, "I've been thinking about the belt."

"What about it?" Altaïr asks. He alternately looks from the blade to her.

"It's suffocating me. If it's permitted, may I switch it with another belt from the armory?" She looks at Altaïr, who is still concentrating on his blade.

"Hmm," he mutters, "I suppose so." He finishes sharpening, placing the stone on the table, along with the blade. "There's an old belt of mine in the wardrobe. See if you can use it."

Ambra searches for the said belt in Altaïr's side of wardrobe. She finds it folded neatly in the corner, along with some leather strips. "This one?" She takes the belt out to show him.

"Yes, that one." He replies.

She grabs her sash from the wardrobe, then wears it. She takes a look at the belt before wearing it. It has darker color, less hard than her belt, but still in good condition. There are pockets for throwing knives, two pouches in the back, and there is an attachment to hold sword. It is smaller and lighter than Altaïr's current belt.

"I wore it ten years ago." He says as she tries to wear it. "If it doesn't fit you, we can take one in the armory. Why are you wearing it like that?"

Ambra stops, realizing that she is about to hook the belt from the front, not from the back as she usually sees Altaïr does it. "So I can hook it." She answers shyly, then continues hooking it before twisting it to the back. She tests the belt around her waist, feeling it hugging her lower torso, how light it feels as she moves around. "This fits me. Thank you, Altaïr."

Altaïr has an amused look on his face as he chuckles, "You might want to learn to properly wear it, or the brethren will make fun of you. Here, remove the belt - no, don't turn it to the front -" he shakes his head, "reach behind your back and try removing it, Ambra."  
He stands up and approaches her, his own belt in one hand. He watches her slightly bending backwards to unhook the belt, then she bends to the front, which does not help her at all. She looks at him, flushed, "I can't see the hook." She admits.

"Turn around and give me your hand." Altaïr instructs. He takes her hand and guides her to the center of her lower back, where the hook is, and guides the other hand to there. "This is the hook, now do this to unhook it," he positions her fingers correctly, "pull it - yes, like that."

Ambra finally removes the belt. "Was it difficult for you as it was for me?"

"Not at all. Let me show you how. You place the belt like this," he says, wrapping the belt over his belly, "put your hands on the hook like this," he turns around to show it to her, "and hook it."

"You're making it so easy," Ambra tries on herself. It does not take long until she is frustrated for not being able to find the hook, and when she does, it is even more frustrating for she cannot hook it. "May I wear it from the front?"

"As long as you don't do it in front of the brethren," She finds him holding back a smile as she wears the belt in reverse before turning it to the correct position. "Speaking of them, how are they treating you?"

She looks a bit taken aback, "They are kind."

He frowns, "None has deemed you lower than them?"

"None, Altaïr." She smiles to get her point across. "Your students, Hamzah, Tholeb, and Sofyan, they always tell funny story, and they always include me to listen. Kadar and his friends too."

Altaïr mutters acknowledging. "Are you comfortable with them?"

"I am, Altaïr." She replies.

"Very well." He says, heading back to the table to continue sharpening his blade. Yet he turns on his heels. "What did you talk about with the courtesans?"

She literally jumps in her place, "How did you-"

"I don't. Your expression says it all." He replies smugly, a manner that immediately turns to serious in a second. "What did they say to you?"

Ambra feels her cheeks immediately blush upon remembering that one question. That is not something she wants to imagine - dominating? What does that even mean? "Uh..." She clears her throat, unable to look Altaïr in the eyes.

"Did they ask unpleasant questions?" He guesses correctly.

Ambra exhales, trying to reduce the heat on her cheeks. "They... they were curious about me. And about you."

"Tell me about it." He says, more like an order, sternly.

"B-but it's inappropriate to talk about." She stammers. It is just a gossip, right? It is not something a master should hear.

"I know the sweet talks of those women, Ambra. If anything is inappropriate for me, more likely it is for you. Now spill it, everything that they said to you, and who said what." He clears his throat, "and look at me."

Ambra looks up to him, looking at him in the eyes. He is not frowning as she expects him to be. Taking a deep breath, she starts, "There were five courtesans. Nisa, Lina, Talia, Asma, and Zainab." She is surprised by her own ability to remember their name. "They asked where I came from, and if I have killed anyone - and - and they asked about you."

Altaïr has not replied, so she continues, blushing.

"They thought you...me...already..." She braces herself and mentally kicks herself in the head, "They wanted to know how it feels...with you."

There. Now it's going to be awkward for us.

"And what did you tell them?" Altaïr asks again.

"I told the truth. We haven't done it -" she stops herself. Haven't done it - oh good job, Ambra!

A calm gaze is what Altaïr offers, "Is that all?" He asks.

She only nods. Too embarrassed to speak.

He sighs, "Here I thought they said things that corrupt you." He glances to her, "they didn't, did they?"

She shakes her head, "I don't think so."

"Good. You're too young and gullible to know about that." He closes his eyes, only to open it again and look at her. "I'm serious. The courtesans have ways to seduce people, however gentle and harmless they seem."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I should have just stood where you told me to." Ambra apologizes. "It's just..."

"Yes?" Altaïr turns to face her again.

"It's... They are the only female other than me in here. I supposed they remind me of my friends." She answers quietly, lowering her head.

Altaïr sighs, "I'm not forbidding you from meeting them, Ambra. You are free to socialize with anyone in the fortress, but keep your distance. There are things that you shouldn't know about yet."

Sex? Intimate relationship? Yes, it is an untouched region for her, but that does not mean she has not heard of it.

"Can I trust you, Ambra?" Altaïr asks, eyes boring into her. "While I'm off for a mission, can you be trusted?"

Ambra nods, "Yes, Altaïr."


	5. Chapter 5

The journey to Jerusalem is not a light one. The war is coming. The road is filled with camps, enemies and allies mostly, and refugees. Altaïr and Malik have to cover themselves in plain white kaftan, concealing the weapons they carry, pretending to be scholars on their merry way. The sun has not yet glared down at them, but the gust of the wind already carries a promise of unbearable heat.

Altaïr wipes the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his kaftan. Often times he would be thinking of many things. Starting from the training he has left for his students. He and Malik decided to let their students train together. Knowing Malik's brother will at least be there to keep an eye on Ambra somewhat calms Altaïr down. The next he has in mind is about the targets. From the briefing with Al-Mu'alim yesterday, the targets are known as Lahab and Uzza. They lead radical groups that have been terrorizing Jerusalem with their rally against the protesters opposing the government. They'd beat the protesters, catch them, and torture them in seclusion. Their actions are concerning, as they go as far as burning the houses and market stalls of the protesters.

The first and foremost reason why Altaïr despises going to Jerusalem is the situation. It has been somewhat chaotic in these past years. Finding a target in the city will be difficult, he knows that, but these two targets lurk on the street. It should be easy, right?

The first day of their journey goes quietly, with Malik muttering about random things along the way. They take short rest regularly, so they could be on their way quicker. Eventually they get to ride in the dark, with the starry sky lighting their way, and an occasional humming as Malik entertains himself.

The second day is quiet as well. Altaïr does not mind the silence, his mind can use the peace before reaching Jerusalem. Malik, on the other hand, is keen on humming a tune. Until at night, as they are preparing for a short rest, he starts to ask, "How come you have not bedded Ambra yet?"

The sudden question startles Altaïr, and he gives an annoyed look as Malik is leaning against a rock. "What kind of question is that?"

"I could say the same to you."

"Malik," Altaïr sighs, closing his eyes, "she's just a girl."

"A young woman," Malik corrects sharply. "You were what - thirteen, fourteen, when you first slept with the courtesan?"

Altaïr stays silent. He has no intention to humor Malik's interest.

"Are you keeping yourself for someone?" Malik asks again, and Altaïr wonders how severe the punishment would be if he were to kill Malik right now. "Hey, Altaïr -"

"By Allah, won't you drop it already?" Altaïr protests, eyes opening to glare at Malik.

"I'm merely curious as to how and why you ignore your sexual needs. It doesn't seem wise - if more, it seems unhealthy." Malik replies nonchalantly, not even responding to the death glare that Altaïr gives.

"What - you're saying your way of pleasing yourself with the courtesans is much better? No wonder you're of lower rank than me."

Malik throws a pebble at Altaïr, whom catches it in his hand. "You're frustrated. Frustration leads to recklessness. The courtesans' purpose is to avoid us from being frustrated, yet you, you are frustrated by their presence. Even the idea of sex seems revolting to you."

"You're frustrating me right now." Altaïr mutters as he lies back down on the blanket covered ground.

"You're not...you know...invalid, are you?"

Altaïr raises his left hand and flicks his hidden blade, a warning threat.

"I'll take that as a no."

The third day is a bit harsh, as it starts to drizzle. They manage to reach a small town, and decide to rest there until the sky clears up. Thankfully, Malik has dropped last night's topic altogether, now opting to silence and occasional humming - whatever song he has in mind, Altaïr wishes he would not sing it along the way.

The fourth day, they are getting closer to Jerusalem - good, their supplies have diminished quickly, and Altaïr hates to have stopped and gathered food on the way. Although by night, they manage to camp by a river and refill their waterskin.

On the fifth day, their path crosses with a group of peddlers. Altaïr decides to buy dried food they are selling, including salted meat. While Malik is haggling over the price of apricots and grapes. Eventually their journey continues, each gets the items that they require - and Malik offers a piece of apricot as a peaceful gesture.

On the sixth day, Altaïr and Malik finally arrive at the gate of Jerusalem when the sun has been shining brightly. They leave their horses outside the gate, tied to nearby trough, and they slip into the city in their kaftan, with heads bow down and hands clasping together, like scholars who are praying.

Once they are inside the walls, they immediately head to an empty alley. Simultaneously removing the kaftan and folding it, before slipping it behind their belt. Malik is scanning the walls, "Up there." He leaps upwards, manages to catch the ledge of a closed window, and continues climbing to the roof.

Altaïr takes some steps backwards before running up against the wall, catching a horizontal beam, and continues climbing ahead of Malik. On the roof, he does not see archers yet. Malik climbs up behind him.

"Show off." He mutters.

"Likewise," Altaïr replies. "If I recall correctly, the archers would only be near the market, which is over there," he points forward. "The bureau is somewhere over here," he points to his left.

"The bureau is not far from the market," Malik retorts. "It's over there." He points slightly to the left of where the market is. "Honestly, how did you navigate in the first place?"

But Altaïr simply ignores the remark and starts to run to the designated bureau. He feels the vibration of Malik's footsteps behind him. Carefully, he scans the rooftops around him, in case there are archers around. His agile feet lets him leap from one rooftop to the next. When they are met with a jump that is impossible to perform, they simply leap further and let the hands catch the ledge. Before passerby or guards can notice him, he pulls himself up onto the roof and continues running.

Malik's sense of direction is correct, the bureau is not far from the market - that explains the noise, Altaïr thinks. The rooftop gate is open. He slides first into the open chamber, Malik follows, and both land gracefully on the yellowish stones.

They walk into the bureau, where the rafiq is reading from a scroll. "Safety and peace, rafiq." Both say almost at the same time.

The rafiq raises his head from the scroll, "Safety and peace, assassins." His eyes turn to Altaïr, "I see Al-Mu'alim received my message."

Altaïr nods, "If we may, we'd like to start the mission right away."

"Aren't you tired?" The rafiq frowns. "Sit down, eat, and rest. There is plenty of time before the targets appear."

"They appear at the same time?" Malik asks.

"Well, sometimes. Their groups usually march in the evening, but I believe you can find them in their residence." The rafiq reaches for a scroll from the bookcase behind him. He opens it and spreads it on the counter. It is the map of Jerusalem, divided into three districts, rich, middle, and poor. "This is where we are," he points to a location in rich district, "and I think their residence is somewhere around here." He circles an area with his finger.

"Do you not know for certain?" Altaïr asks.

"Well, I can only speculate, not knowing for sure." The rafiq answers.

Malik is looking at the map intently, brows furrowing. "I suppose we can look around the area."

Altaïr leans against the counter, glancing down towards the map. "I suppose so." He scratches his chin, "A private killing is much better than a public one. We could make it as if they kill each other."

Malik shoots a look at him, "Excuse me?"

"They are the leaders of radical groups, aren't they? Killing them will not stop the groups - they will think the protesters did it. Unless, Lahab and Uzza are killed by each other, then their groups can't blame anyone." Altaïr explains. "As you said, Malik, we'll look around the area, find them in their home -"

"And strike them while they are in the same room - possibly with their own swords." Malik finishes the sentences.

Altaïr nods, "If it suits you, we can leave now."

The rafiq shakes his head, "Always in a hurry." He grumbles, taking a leather-bound book from under the counter, as well as two feathers. "Here you go. Don't come back bringing guards with you."

Altaïr and Malik take the feathers, one for each. Malik is looking at the scroll again, before rolling it close, and walks with Altaïr to the open chamber. They both climb out of the bureau to sit on the rooftop.

"He is not as annoying as you said he'd be," Malik mutters.

"Wait until he accuses you for taking his quill," Altaïr replies. "Which way is their residence again?"

Malik frowns and looks around, "Somewhere over there." He stands up and starts running to a direction. Altaïr follows behind.

The area the rafiq mentioned is filled with two stories building, some with an open garden, some is not. A crossroad divides the buildings. Malik decides to take one side, while Altaïr takes the other side. "We'll meet on this rooftop once we find them." Altaïr says before heading to one side of the crossroad.

The rich district of Jerusalem is not overly populated as the poor or middle district, but Altaïr still has to be careful. He walks quietly on the rooftop, casually taking a peek from the small gaps on the roof, before moving onto the next. Al-Mu'alim has described Lahab as a big, burly man with thick black beard and mustache. While Uzza is slimmer, but with the same thickness of beard and mustache. It should be easy, Altaïr thinks.

There is something that he possesses, that he believes not all assassins have, whether it comes from training, meditation, or a gift from Allah, it has helped him tremendously. Altaïr always feels he is capable of sensing other people's intention and emotions - how he does it, he does not know. He would only need to listen or see a person, and suddenly he will know whether or not they mean well. It is something that has helped him throughout the years.

The allies are blue, meaning they are harmless, calm as the sky. The guards are red, meaning they are to be avoided, for they will be after his blood. People who knows information are white, meaning they are a light to his path. And the target is golden, meaning they are the goals he is looking for. Now the real problem is finding the golden hues. Altaïr has looked through many rooftops, and not a glimpse of golden hue that he finds. Perhaps Malik has more luck on his side...

Just before he decides to head over to Malik's side, he sees it. The golden hue, fleeting as he peeks through the roof that he stands on. But he has to be sure. He tries peeking from another side, and there it is. A big, burly man with thick facial hair, sitting on a chair, brandishing a sword. What a coincidence.

He has to return to Malik, after all, they have to find Uzza. And that is when he hears it.

"By God! What are you doing with that sword?!"

The shout comes from under the roof. Could it be - Altaïr think, lowering himself to take a peek once more, and there he is. The other target walks into the room, looking bewildered at the sight of Lahab with a sword.

"What do you think I'm doing? Those pesky protesters keep annoying our streets day and night!" Lahab replies.

"Yes - you can use anything but that sword. That's an heirloom!" Uzza exclaims.

Two golden hues, arguing under the same roof, in the same room. My prayer has been answered, Altaïr smirks. Now how to get Malik to come here...

He stands up and looks around. From where he stands, he can see Malik, peering into windows. Altaïr waits until Malik finishes his search, and there he is, Malik notices Altaïr from the other side of the crossroad. If an expression could speak, his face is telling him, "What are you doing just standing around?"

Altaïr points to the roof under his feet, and Malik's expression immediately changes. He makes his way quickly to Altaïr, leaping gracefully from one rooftop to another, before stopping one rooftop away from Altaïr.

Altaïr gestures that the targets are inside, arguing. Malik gestures back with a nod, and adds that Altaïr may proceed first, he will follow. Altaïr points at the open window that overlooks the street. It is a risky entry, but where else can they slip in?

Malik steps carefully onto the roof, drawing his dagger from the back. Altaïr shakes his head, instead flicking his hidden blade out, then gestures to Malik to explain why. Smaller size, closer combat. Malik clenches his fist to unleash his hidden blade.

They are ready.

Altaïr jumps down and swings himself into the room through the window. Immediately, he grabs the nearest target, Uzza, and stabs his neck from the back. Before Lahab could respond, Malik comes swinging through the window, lands square against his chest, and drives the hidden blade into his heart. One hand smothers his mouth to prevent a scream. Lahab falls with a thud against the floor.

Altaïr places Uzza slowly on the floor, "That was easy." He mutters, taking his feather out to swab it with Uzza's blood.

"Yes. Somehow it is." Malik replies, swabbing his own feather with the blood. "And they bring their weapons too, how lucky."

Altaïr unsheathes Uzza's dagger, handing it to Malik, "Stab him again with this in the same place."

Malik receives the dagger and does as told. Altaïr already moves to take the discarded heirloom sword. He points it to Uzza's neck, stabs him through, and then removes it. He places it on the floor, between Lahab and Uzza's bodies.

"Let's go back."

 

It has been two weeks since Altaïr and Malik left for Jerusalem. Their leave has left their students to train with each other. It is a usual routine, Kadar and Tholeb leading the training, and at the end of it, Ambra would retreat to the bathhouse to examine the damage. New bruises, sore muscles, broken nails shed stifle her cry of pain as she treats each wound gently.

But today, the damage comes in another form.

Blood - her eyes widened, staring at her stained trousers. How long has it been since her last period? She does not remember. Sometimes it comes and goes, but right now it comes at such unpredictable time. She sighs, a bit thankful that the blood is not too much.

The shelf should have something, right? She checks the shelf in the corner. No. Only towels, and she wonders if she can wear one or two underneath. It is a simple rag, slightly thick, and quite absorbent. This will do, she thinks, as she takes three from the shelf and places them on the bench.

It is in Altaïrs room where she starts to feel something in her stomach. A cramp. A burning one that comes and goes, and it sends sharp pain to her lower abdomen. She tries to regulate her breathing, even tries lying on her side to see if it is reduced, but to no avail. What should she tell Altaïr - oh Allah, she bites her tongue as the pain comes - does he even know about period?

She gets up to get a drink. Her mind plays many possibilities that could occur if Altaïr finds out. Would he be disgusted? Telling her to stay away - that is quite possible. Would he be nonchalant? Confused?

She spends the entire evening regulating her breathing, praying that the pain will just ebb away. She finds herself slightly disturbed by little things; the position of the chair, the lack of breeze, and the humidity of the room. She has opened the window to get some air, and she is frustrated by how little it comes. Calm down, Ambra, she reminds herself. This is just like one of those times, you're bleeding, you're in pain, and its going to be alright. She inhales deeply. For a second she is at ease, but when the pain returns, she bites down a string of curses.

When dinner time comes, she wobbles to the hall, trying to walk straight with a cramping stomach. Bilal, one of Maliks students, waves at her from a table, and she heads to him. Again, he is sitting with the rest of Malik's students, and Altaïr's. Tholeb moves to let her sit down.

The rest of the dinner continues in chatter. Ambra can only respond with a smile or a short reply. The cramp returns unexpectedly, and the last thing she wants to happen is to show pain in front of her friends. It will be awkward, they'd ask what is wrong, and she is going to have to explain to them over dinner.

After she finishes her plate, she is the first to stand up, and Tholeb stops her. "Where are you going?"

"Just taking some fresh air." She replies, half-lying, as another half wants to return to the room and sleep.

"I'll join you." Kadar rises from his seat, and Ambra tries not to groan. "Do you mind we're walking to the library? I have to return these." He gestures at two thick books beside him. After bidding farewell to the groups, Ambra and Kadar walk out of the dining hall. The latter walks beside her to the library.

"Did you read all of them?" Ambra asks as they walk to the castle.

"Malik. He forgot to return them." Kadar chuckles. "He spent nights reading them, making notes even. The amount of scrolls," he laughs.

Ambra smiles at the thought of Malik hunched over the parchments, serious expression on his face. "He always does that?"

Kadar nods, "Yes. He loves reading, and sometimes can be forceful to us. He likes to assign a book to each of us, and we have to finish it in a day or two, plus writing what we learn from it too. Such a burden."

"It sounds fun." She comments. The cramp returns and she inhales sharply, thankfully goes unnoticed by Kadar.

"Sounds fun? It's horrible. When other mentors give lectures, he gives us books - but don't tell him." He lowers his voice.

In the library, Kadar hands the books to a scholar behind a table. "As-Sayf?" The scholar asks.

"Yes. I'm his brother, Kadar." Kadar replies.

The scholar checks his notes, "Your brother still hasn't returned a scroll."

"I'll tell him that."

The scholar looks up to Kadar, "And tell him to return it tomorrow, or he will be banned from borrowing books ever again."

"Doesn't stop him from smuggling one, but alright." Kadar mutters.

While Kadar is talking to the scholar, Ambra looks around the library. She walks behind a shelf, checking the covers of the leather-bound books, amused and intrigued by some of the titles. A fishing guide, an accumulation of love letters, and numerous random titles among such as the history of scimitar, the art of punching, and many more. She walks even further, finding the titles to be more and more intriguing, until she settles on a book, A Brief Guide of Amputation.

"I wouldn't read that if I were you," a voice comes from behind her, and she flinches. She turns around to find a tall man, standing behind her, about to reach for a book above her. The man notices her stare, "It's not that entertaining." He elaborates.

"What would you suggest?" She asks, noticing the man's familiar face, especially the beard and the voice.

"I don't know, a guide to fight?" He replies sharply. "But it's your choice to read whatever book you like, don't mind me."

Ambra notices the book he takes, but the title is too faded to read. Before she can say anything, the man walks away to a table. Kadar comes from around the corner, "Find anything good?"

She glances at him, "Yes - no, actually. Kadar, who is that man?"

Kadar looks behind him, "The one sitting there?"

"Yes. I've seen him but I forget his name."

"That's Abbas. He is one of the instructors." Kadar replies, looking at the man sitting in the table. "I believe you met him in the meditation room? When you were first introduced, remember?"

Ambra frowns, then nods, "Yes, I remember now. He didn't really agree with my presence."

Kadar shrugs, "It's not without reason. He's worried that you won't be able to follow the life of an assassin." He walks ahead of Ambra, and she follows. "Let's go to the garden. It's more refreshing than the library."

Upon climbing the stairs, Ambra catches up next to Kadar, "Why did you want to be an assassin?"

Kadar chuckles, "Who doesn't want to be an assassin? It's an honorable life." He opens the gate leading to the garden, letting Ambra walks in before he follows and closes it behind him. "Actually, our father was an assassin, so we sort of following his footsteps." He lowers his voice.

"That must be great." Ambra says. They are walking to a nearby bench. The garden is empty. The courtesans must have returned to their rooms.

"Well, he was a highly respected man in the Brotherhood. I mean, he brought us up into this life. It's just natural that Malik and I want to be like him." Kadar sits down on the bench, as does Ambra. "Malik does much better than me actually."

Ambra shrugs, "I won't say that. We'd be lost without your training."

Kadar grins, "It's just something I once saw Malik did."

"But it's a good training. I almost can't feel my legs." Ambra smiles. She takes in the sight of the garden. The green grass that are illuminated by the braziers, the sound of water fountains, the cold breeze that moves the leaves of the trees, and the view - mesmerizing, if it is day time.

"I...envy you, Ambra." Kadar says, and Ambra turns to look at him.

"Why?" She frowns.

"You get to be trained by Altaïr. I had hoped that Ill be his student, but then Malik became an instructor, and of course, he chose to train me." Kadar's expression hardens, "what's your first impression of Malik?"

Ambra struggles to think, "He...really likes to read. He's knowledgeable." She recalls the first time she met Malik, "he can be hard to talk to, but he is a good listener. When Altaïr introduced him to me, he did not approve me. But after I told him everything, he changed his perspective." She tries to come up with what she knows about Malik. "I think he's a good person. I don't know for sure, though, we barely talk."

Kadar sighs, "Well you're not wrong about him. I just...wish he could stop worrying about me, and treat me more like an assassin." He scratches the side of his face, "I guess he is overly cautious about anything. Don't tell Altaïr, but after their spar, I was worried Malik would lost control and hurt him."

To this, Ambra laughs, slightly louder than she intends to do, and it startles Kadar, "I think he has done so."

"No, Im serious. It may seem that it was just a playful sparring, but there were times when I honestly thought Malik would gouge Altaïr's eyes out." Kadar elaborates, sounding really worried. "Remember when he pinned Altaïr to the fence? I was terrified beyond anything. I know he wouldn't go as far as killing him, but what if he did? Or, what if Altaïr tried to defend himself and ended up killing him?"

Ambra cannot comment on this. She only knows both men briefly, and all that she learns about them is that they are close to each other, possibly used to train together. Hearing Kadar talking about them in that ugly nature makes her wonder if there is something more than meets the eye. "They're not always friends, are they?"

Kadar shrugs, "No. Malik used to train with someone else - hmm... Who was that fellow... They were not trained by the same instructor. Abbas used to train with Altaïr, you know. He gave him that scar on the lips."

Ambra's eyes widened, "He did?"

"That's what Malik told me. It was an accident, of course. But after that, Altaïr was assigned to train with Malik. They were always competing against each other. There's so many times when Malik trained in the middle of the night so he can do much better than him in the morning, but still, Altaïr bested him." Kadar explains. "But, despite everything, I admire them." He looks at Ambra, "when you've learned something from Altaïr, would you tell me? I'll tell you some things my father has taught me."

Ambra smiles and replies, "Alright."

Both of them stay silent in the garden until the wind grows colder. Ambra inhales deeply, feeling the cramp has reduced. She could stay here for a little bit more. Never has she felt so refreshed and energized like this, especially with a good companion for talking. She looks up to the sky, where numerous stars have adorned the darkness up there. The clouds are moving slowly to Masyaf.

She is about to speak when she hears a door being opened. Both she and Kadar turns to the source of the sound. It is not the gate, but it comes from the door in the far corner opposite of where they sit. A female drabbed in kaftan comes running to them, and Ambra immediately recognizes her face.

Lina runs to them, but slows down as she gets closer, and eventually stops in front of them. "You're not Malik." She says, disappointed and huffing.

Kadar smiles gently, "He's in Jerusalem. I'm his brother, Kadar."

Lina glances at Ambra, "What are you two doing out here? It's cold. At least come inside where it's warm."

"We're about to head back, actually." Kadar stands up, motioning Ambra to do the same. "I'll give your regards to Malik when he returns."

To this, Lina blushes, "Oh don't, he'll think I'm desperate for him." She looks at Ambra, smiling, "I apologize for earlier. We were so rude to you."

Ambra stutters as Kadar looks at her, lost in the context, "No, no, it's alright. It's not rude at all."

Lina takes on Ambra's hand, "You can join us inside. We don't bite, unless you like that - I'm sorry, it's a habit - anyway," she clears her throat, "come visit us sometimes, yes? Everyone wants to meet you." She squeezes her hand before letting go, then she looks at Kadar, winking, "come find me sometimes."

Ambra can see Kadar's flushed cheeks as Lina turns around and leaves, swaying her hips with every step. Kadar pretends to cough only to bring up his hand to cover his face, "I...uhm... It's getting late. Do you want to head back now or-"

"It's alright. I can head back on my own." Ambra cuts in.

"N-no, let me take you." Kadar says, tone slightly higher than usual. He glances at Lina, who eyes him from the door where she came from. "I really should take you back -"

"Kadar, I won't judge you." Ambra offers an understanding smile. "She's waiting." She cocks her head to Lina.

When Kadar looks at her, his face is deep red, and she holds herself not to laugh. "Please don't tell Malik."

"My lips are sealed. I'll see you tomorrow." And with that, they part ways. Ambra quickly heads into the castle, not turning back to see Kadar walking to Lina.

The temperature in the library is warmer than the garden, but she can only indulge for a while. She exits the castle and heads to the tower. It has started to drizzle. She runs as fast as she could, feeling her sore muscles screaming from the sudden burst. She manages to reach the room without being drenched.

It is still empty. Altaïr has not returned yet from Jerusalem. Perhaps tomorrow? She thinks, as she removes her effects and prepares to sleep. There is nothing else to do tonight, and honestly, she feels exhausted from the training. After checking that the window and the door are locked, she places two layers of towel on the carpet, and carefully lies down on her side, her back touching the wall to avoid rolling in her sleep.  
She inhales. Her hair still has the smell of the soap, yet she tastes the earthen smell of Altaïr on the pillow. With the empty space beside her, the room suddenly feels too big, a change that she partly likes and partly hates. The sound of the pouring rain leads her asleep.

 

The pouring rain does not stop two horses and their riders to ride back home. Altaïr rides in silence, as well as Malik, the latter who is fuming with annoyance since they leave Jerusalem five days ago. Altaïr cannot blame him, he is as annoyed as him. They have to take a detour after finding the usual route flooded by mud and water. The shorter assassin mutters curses under his breath every now and then, while the other one tries not to burst angrily. Altaïr grows impatient by the seconds, squinting to see anything in the darkness, which proves to be difficult even for himself. Malik comes up beside him, yelling, "Next time trust me when I said we should wait!" And he leads the way, proving to know the terrain better than Altaïr.

They arrive in Masyaf a lot quicker than planned. After placing the horses in the stable, they quickly head into the sleeping city. Even the guards are surprised to see them still up and running in the middle of the night, more like past midnight. The cursed rain has not stopped yet, and it carries a very cold wind with it.

None says anything as they enter the bathhouse to change. Malik has a death glare now and then, and Altaïr cannot bring himself to apologize. Yes, he is at fault, but what can an apology prove anyway? After discarding the wet clothes into the basket, he brings his still wet effects up the tower. A towel hangs around his shoulder. Malik leaves ahead, stomping his feet a bit harder than he should have.

Upon reaching the front of his door, Altaïr knocks. "Ambra?" He calls, slightly louder. He waits and listens for a movement, but it is difficult when the gushing wind is all he hears. He grows more impatient. He fishes his pouch for the lockpicks, and sits down to pick the lock of his own door.

The wind blows the door open as he manages to unlock it, but he lunges and catches it before it can slam against the wall. The warmth of the room is welcoming, but not the wetness of his leather effects. He closes the door quietly and locks it, then drops his effects one by one on the table. He'd dry them in the morning.

Altaïr yawns, stretching himself as the feeling of exhaustion and cold overwhelm his body. Even with his endurance, he still requires a rest. He dries his hair using the towel, eyes watching Ambra who sleeps quietly as if the rain does not bother her. She is curled up, clenching one of the pillows that divides their sides. Her dark locks flowing above the pillows.

After deeming his hair dry enough, he throws the towel onto the table, and prepares to lie down on the carpet. There is still time to rest, however close morning might be, an hour or two of sleeping will do wonder than having none. He lies down on the carpet, sighing from the comfortable warmth. Yet something feels wrong.

It does not come to him immediately. He turns to Ambra, sniffing. That is not the usual soap, is his initial thought. He sniffs above her hair, frowning, that is definitely not the usual soap. Has she bought a soap on her own? Is there a new soap in the fortress that he does not know about?

The smell reaches his nostrils as he inhales deeply. The familiar acidic smell that he wishes is not what he thinks it is. He observes her, trying to find where that smell comes from. I've been gone two weeks and she has hurt herself - he shakes his head. He lowers himself to follow the smell, finding it resting from somewhere in her abdomen. When he inhales over the area, the smell is thicker, and without thinking, he shakes her by the shoulder.

"Ambra!" He calls her name, louder than he thinks it will be, as the rain muffles his voice. He shakes her awake, and it proves to be working. She opens her eyes widely, bloodshot and wet.

"What happened? What's going on?" She asks, voice hoarse and hands shaking from the sudden alarm.

"Are you injured?" He asks, his hand still holds her shoulder. He notices she looks slightly paler than before.

"Inj - no, I'm alright, Altaïr." She replies sleepily.

"Ambra, tell the truth." He insists, hand clenching her shoulder tightly. That familiar smell of blood is not an imagination. What kind of training that happened today?

"Altaïr, I am telling the truth -" she frowns at the strength he uses to grip her.

"Then why do I smell blood?"

Ambra's eyes widened, "I'm not injured - Altaïr," she grabs the wrist of his hand that grips her shoulder, trying to remove him, but the assassin does not move. She looks up at him, stuttering, "Y-yes, I'm bleeding - but I'm not injured! Honest! I'm alright!" She quickly adds.

Altaïr scoffs, "I shouldn't have left. What did they do to you?" He looks at her eyes, the emerald orbs that are trying to look away from him. Something happened today, and she does not want to talk about it. He grabs her chin with the other hand, pulling herself to look at him. "Is it Kadar? Is it Malik's students or mine? Look at me." His patience is gone. The only possibility that she is bleeding but not wounded is if someone has touched her down below and she is bleeding from the impact. And judging by her reaction, Altaïr fears the worst. Someone in the fortress dares to go behind his back to touch her for the first time. The thought angers him. "Who defiled you?" Each word comes as a growl.

Ambra's skin is burning against his touch. When she looks at him, he can see tears welling up in her eyes, and the flush of her cheeks, "No one did anything to me, Altaïr." Her voice is trembling. "I'm bleeding because it's my p-period..."

Altaïr loosens his grip on her, and she immediately sits up. He can see her hands trembling - the old method of interrogation works so well on her, she is not lying. He sighs, sitting beside her, pinching the bridge of his nose as he relaxes. "Are you alright?" He asks without looking at her.

"Yes." She replies shortly. She sniffles slightly, quickly wiping her face before the tears can drop to her cheeks.

"Did anyone..."

"No," she immediately answers, furiously shaking her head.

"Good." Altaïr heaved a heavy sigh of relief. Despite the truth, his heart is thumping wildly still, as if rage still consumes him with the thought that someone dares to defile her. What are you thinking - he shakes his head. It is the exhaustion that makes him pull out a wild conclusion out of nowhere.

Ambra clears her throat, "Welcome back, Altaïr." She manages to say, but not looking at him.

Altaïr nods, "I thought... Never mind. I'm sorry for waking you up." He looks at her. The trembling in her hands have disappeared. "Does it hurt?" Does what hurt?

She shakes her head, before opting to shrugging, "Sometimes."

"Do you need a day off?"

"No - I'm alright." She replies hastily. She looks up to him, eyes still red and wet, "I'm alright, Altaïr. Don't worry." She smiles tightly, trying to assure him.

The assassin sighs, "You will tell me if something happens, will you?"

She nods, "I will, Altaïr."

"Very well. Go back to sleep, Ambra." He says. He waits until she lies down on the carpet before lowering himself to lie down as well. From the corner of his eyes, he can see her wiping her eyes, then resuming the sleeping position before he interrupted her earlier. He closes his eyes and follows her to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of abuse and rape.

"You look ill, Ambra." Sofyan says during warm-up. The rain from last night has left the training ground with some puddles of water, even the sky has not cleared yet. The students are stretching in the field.

"I'm fine." Ambra replies, trying to smile. Honestly, no, she does not feel fine at all. The cramp returns this morning when she awoke. She has been trying to walk it off or breathe it out, but to no avail. What makes matter worse is that she finds herself growing annoyed by the minute by any little things.

The training for today is as usual. While Hamzah, Tholeb, and Sofyan practice their throwing knives skill, Ambra has to endure the hand-to-hand combat training that has been tedious. Altaïr stands in front of her, automatically assuming the same posture, and she follows. The cramping worsens.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Altaïr frowns at her pained expression.

She huffs, "Yes, I am." A bit harsher than she intends to be.

"Very well." He replies, and he makes the first move.

The shuffling of the feet, paired with deflecting Altaïr's attacks, irritate her. His speed is never constant, always speeding up or slowing down, and he manages to get some taps to show her how weak her defense is. She huffs again, suddenly feeling everything to be wrong; the heat under the hood, the rustling of her tunics and pants, the wet ground under her boots, and the lack of defense she has against Altaïr's attacks.

Altaïr grabs her arms, "Focus."

"I'm sorry." Ambra mutters, pulling her arms from his grip.

Altaïr resumes the attacks, then gestures to her to switch roles. Now she is attacking him. It has been difficult to get one hit. Their height difference makes her unable to have the same reach as him. Whatever punch she is giving, he easily deflects it. It irks her to see how immovable he is.

Her feet shuffles faster, so does the attacks. Yet he swats her punches away, "Calculate your move." He warns her between attacks. This time she slows down, and he immediately yanks her arms again, "I said calculate, don't lose your momentum."

She sighs, "I'm sorry." She forces the words, biting down a groan as the cramp is stabbing her abdomen.

He watches her intently, "If you're not feeling well, you can rest."

She shakes her head, "I'm. Fine." She huffs each words.

"Then prove it." He resumes the posture.

Punches after punches she throws to him. Each one is not successful, and it makes her even more irritated. She looks at his face. He is not even frowning, not showing any difficulty in deflecting her. His breathing is not as labored as she is. And his eyes - the bored look in those orbs flicks a switch inside her.

Ambra does not remember when she throws the attacks with more strength. Each one is still being deflected, yes, but the impact against Altaïr's arms are quite aloud. She clenches the fists tighter and resumes the attack, savoring the slight change in his expression with each punch. You're not the only one that can be unpredictable, she finds herself thinking that. All of the sudden, she changes the angle of the punches, and which hand punches where, and her knuckles make contact with his cheek.

Bewilderment can be the word she is using to describe the look in his face. He has stopped deflecting, so she stops attacking. Why - she is about to wonder, then she gasps, only to come to realization that she has just punched her master in the face.

"Altaïr, I'm sorry -" she stutters as he wipes the side of his face. Oh no - this is not the best time to be on his bad side.

Instead, Altaïr smirks, a smug one. "Keep it coming like that." And he resumes the defense posture. Ambra is confused. Is he upset? Is he serious? He raises an eyebrow at her, "What are you waiting for?"

She takes the attack posture, unsure, "I'm not in trouble?"

"For finally hitting me?" He scoffs, "that will be a coincidence, unless you can get more hits on me."

How arrogant. Ambra resumes attacking him. She looks at his face, annoyed at how easy he slips back into the mask of boredom as if she did not just punch him. Fine, if an unpredictable attack is what he wants, she clenches her jaw.

Another punch nearly lands on his cheek, but he deflects it, and she immediately punches his side. He chuckles at the impact - chuckles! Did I not hit him hard enough?

She shuffles her feet faster and closer to him, holding back from flinching every time his arms collided with her fists, especially the metal armbrace. The closer distance makes the impacts more painful, but each attack is up close and personal. Eventually she is satisfied with how labored his breathing has become, how the sweat rolls from his forehead to his nose, and the bored look in his eyes has changed into amusement.

Then comes the change, she has to defend while he attacks. He still uses the usual attack pattern, but the thought that he might change it mid-spar terrifies her. She shuffles away from him, his punches hit the air. He shuffles closer to her, grabbing her arms as she tries to deflect him, and she yanks her arms from his grips. For once, he looks mad, but then he continues attacking, and she tries to deflect.

Ambra's back collides with the weapon rack, and she finds nowhere else to escape the burst of attack from Altaïr. One of his punches almost hits her ear, it startles her. Suddenly he grabs her arms again, harder than before, and yanks her forward. She tries pulling herself from him, but to no avail. It scares her how easy this seems to him. For a moment, she is certain she is under attack, and without thinking, she pulls on her arms, with him still stubbornly holding onto her, and she kicks his abdomen with both feet.

She staggers as Altaïr lets go of her. The assassin dusts off his belt and tunic, where two footprints have adorned them. "Where did that come from?" He chuckles, lowering his hood to wipe the sweat with his gloves.

No, no more apology, Ambra bites down her own tongue. I'm having the worst period cramp and he is attacking me, she clenches her fists, ready to attack or defend.

Altaïr resumes the usual posture, then without warning, he lunges to her. First punch lands to her right shoulder, and she groans, staggering backwards from the impact. It actually hurts, much more than his usual punches. He smirks at her. That is a warning punch.

She notices him changing the shuffling pattern, now attacking from either left or right. He manages to get some punches in, mainly on her back and sides, and Ambra inhales sharply from each one of them. A punch nearly lands on her jaw, and she ducks beforehand, feeling the top of her hood receiving the blow. Before she can reorient herself, she sees his knee moving forward to her face, and she immediately holds out both hands to deflect it.

The impact flings her backward, her palms aching, but she is glad it is not her face. Altaïr lunges himself to her, and she swings to the left to avoid him, almost manages to land a punch to his side when all of the sudden he turns to grab her wrist and twist her. She groans loudly as he presses her arm to her back. Another one of his hand pulling her shoulder backwards to avoid her from wiggling away. Her back is glued to his front.

"Now how would you escape this?" He huffs the questions, gruffly than usual. "I could stab you from the back - feel that?" She feels the metal armbrace against her back, and knows the threat his hidden blade proposes to her. "I can break your arm -" he holds her arm slightly higher, and she groans again. It hurts almost as bad as the cramp. "Or I can break your calves." He puts a foot behind one of her calf, threatening, before lowering it down. "If I were the enemy, you have less than a second to decide your next move, or you're dead."

Ambra tries to think of a way out. Her other arm is useless against his strength. She tries to wiggle the arm that is pinned, and he simply presses the armbrace closer to her. A wrong move. She looks up from the ground, and notices almost half the students are glancing at her, waiting to see how this fight will turn out to be.

It happens briefly. She sees Abbas stomping his foot and throwing his head backwards, despite his eyes not looking at her. A hint? She looks down again, noticing how close Altaïr stands against her back. A wrong move can do no harm, right?

She straightens herself before stomping a foot with all the forces she has on Altaïr's right foot. The assassin grunts, automatically lowers himself to the front, and she uses the time to head butt him with the back of her head. Whatever it is that she hits, it is enough to loosen his grip on her, and she takes the opportunity to escape his grip. She manages to straighten her arm, but he still grips her wrist tightly.

Before she can do anything, his other hand grabs her hood in attempt to lock her back in the same position. Her hood falls to her shoulder, baring her messy tied hair to the air. She swings to look at him, and suddenly he pulls her to him. She puts a foot between them, attempting to kick him, but he deflects it with his knees. They are pulling against each other.

And suddenly he lets her go.

She falls backwards, butt and back land first on the ground, as well as the back of her head. The impact makes her slightly dizzy, and she tries to sit up. As she sees Altaïr towers above her, she is certain he is going to strike down. Yet he does not. He offers a hand to her.

"Is this a trap?" She asks, breath labored and hot.

"No." He grabs her by the upper arm, helping her get up. "That was the improvement I'm looking for. Take a rest, and we'll continue." He hesitates before putting a hand on her shoulder, "you...did well, Ambra."

The praise is enough to makes up for the numerous pain she endures. She smiles at him, "Thank you, Altaïr."

She watches Altaïr wiping his lips, noticing they are slightly swollen. Did I do that? She has no idea. He is heading to see his other students, and she uses the time to get some water and take a rest.

The clay jug in the side of the training field provides a source of drinking water. Ambra grabs the ladle, flinching when feeling the soreness of her arm, and she uses it to drink. The water is refreshing in her throat, immediately quenching her thirst, and she heaves a sigh of relief, placing the ladle back in its place before.

She stands on the side of the field, massaging the soreness from her arms, while watching the students and mentors on the field. Her eyes fall to Malik and his students. They are practicing the dagger, the weapon for their next rank, and she is mesmerized by how easily Malik turns the blade in his hand. Kadar comes close to his swiftness, swinging the blade with Rahim. Then Ambras eyes fall to Bilal. The gentle student is testing the dagger with Utsman, carefully trying not to hurt each other. He glances briefly at her, smiling, before returning his gaze back to his opponent.

Someone approaches from the side, and Ambra turns to look. Abbas approaches the clay jug, not even looking at her as he takes the ladle to drink.

"Sore arms?" He says, wiping his beard.

"Yes." Ambra replies. She looks at him, "Thank you."

Abbas looks at her, "For what?"

"The hint." She replies.

Abbas mutters, "It's always nice to see Altaïr gets hit, especially by a girl. Good luck training with him." And he turns to walk away.

After the training ends, Altaïr dismisses his students, looking slightly satisfied by the progress they finally make on throwing knives, although Ambra cannot say the same for herself. Her tempo falters after the first spar because of the stupid cramps. Her arms feel sore and stinging, she is almost scared to look at the damage under the tunic.

She really wants to return to the room so that she can prepare for a bath, but Altaïr motions her to follow him to the castle to report his mission from yesterday. Malik is walking beside him, flashing a smile at Ambra. "I take it sharing a carpet with this man has exhausted you so." He opens a conversation.

Ambra shakes her head, "No. Altaïr sleeps soundly."

Malik laughs, "Thats not what I meant." His laughter is short-lived as Altaïr elbows him on the stomach.

"Watch your tongue." Altaïr growls at the still chuckling Malik.

Both instructors climb up to Al-Mualims quarter, while Ambra decides to slip to the garden to wait. The gate creaks softly as she opens it. Some pairs of eyes are looking at her entrance, until a voice gasps, "She's here!" Suddenly, women dressed in many colors come approaching. The sight startles her, especially when she notices the almost transparent tops they are wearing.

The courtesan in red, Lina, grabs her hand, "Welcome, Ambra. Oh you have no idea how long we've been waiting for you!" And she ushers her to the corner, where large carpets are strewn about, and a wonderfully smelled incense is burning in the middle of it all.

Talia is sitting in the corner, leaning against stacks of pillow. Ambra blushes at her sight. She wears the light blue garment, the dark hair flowing over her breasts, the lips are tinted red, and her eyelids are smudged with dark color. Why, every courtesans in the garden look so beautiful. Lina lets her sit down near the wall, still holding her hand.

A hand helps Ambra lowering her hood, "Poor thing, you're sweating." Asma says from the crowd. "Get back, girls, give her a room to breathe."

Ambra is too stunned to say anything. The courtesans are looking at her, the sultry smiles, the gentle eyes - the familiarity that reminds her of the mill. Talia suddenly clears her throat, "So, what brings you here?" She says, toying with the tips of her hair.

"I'm waiting for Altaïr. He's meeting Al-Mualim." Ambra replies.

"Any progress with him?" Talia dives straight to the question.

Ambra shakes her head, "He is not like that."

"Of course he isn't. If he's like any other men in this fortress, we won't be so curious about him." Talia chuckles. "But, do tell us, darling, what is the nature of your relationship with him? Are you married to him? No, if you are, he would have touched you by now." She answers her own question.

"I'm his servant." Ambra boldly replies, earning a gasp from the courtesans.

Talia shrugs, rolling her shoulders rather expressively. "A servant who trains as an assassin. What is your story, darling? You're out there surrounded by men who lust after your body and youth, yet none of them have touched you, not even your master."

Ambra does not know when to begin, or whether or not she should tell them of her past. But being here with them, seeing the understanding gaze they are giving her, she feels safe - or is this just a rouse to get the truth out of her?

Eventually Ambra opens her mouth, but to ask, "How...did you know I'm with Altaïr?"

Asma giggles, "It's me. I saw you leaving with him many times - I'm telling you, we thought you were a new courtesan!" Her laughter fades, "but you're a servant. I don't know which one is worse..."

"Neither. Courtesan or servant, we have our own advantages against those men." Talia cuts in. She turns to Ambra, a patient smile on her face, "it's alright, darling. You can tell us anything. It must have been hard living in the world of men, has it?"

Ambra unconsciously nods, "It's...not that bad. Although some has not seen me as another assassin in training, but it is alright. All that matters is at least someone sees me as one."

"Such determination. You know you have to lose a ring finger for it, do you?" Talia motions to her left hand, folding the ring finger to give her point across.

Ambra nods, "I think it'll be worthy."

"Oh, honey," Nisa's hand cups Ambra's cheek, stroking her gently. "You look sad. What's wrong?"

"You mentioned you came from Tarsus. You're a virgin, and a servant. Did you run away from your master?" Talia speaks from her corner. "Although I've never heard of a virgin servant before, darling, what is your story?"

Sometimes Ambra forgets that all of this is real. What she has escaped from, what she has endured, it all seems distant when she is here. It scares her sometime how easily she recalls all of those memories back. She tries not to think about them, fearing to see Jaqq grinning from the corner, fearing to see him swinging the leather whip at her direction. She fears to imagine what her friends have to endure for her disappearance. The thoughts pop in her mind making her wish a swift death would be their punishment.

"Honey, it's alright." Nisa pulls her into a hug, stroking the back of her head. Ambra finds herself hugging her back, relishing in the first calming contact she ever feels in this fortress.

"She's traumatized," Talia comments. "Whatever you've been through, we've had our fair share of nightmare too, darling. Most of us were shamed and driven away for being courtesans. Zainab was sold to be one. Lulu was raped and left to die, but here she is now, a beautiful flower of the garden." She points to the courtesan in black garment whom smiles at Ambra. "We are constantly stepped on by men, but here, darling, we hold their satisfaction in our hands. We live a better life than being out there. Even Al-Mu'alim respects us."

Nisa lets Ambra go, stroking her cheeks again. "You're safe here, honey." Her words are reassuring and calming.

Ambra holds back a tear as she finally opens her mouth, and everything tumbles out. Where she was born, how she was raised, her friends, the tyranny of Jaqq, how she ended up being here - it all comes out eventually with a sob. How ironic it is that she is given freedom but chose to serve nonetheless. How impossible her goal seems to be, assassinating Jaqq to save her friends. And how it might not be worthy. Her friends could be long gone when she finally has the opportunity.

"It would still be worthy." Talia replies. "What matters is not always the result, but the progress. Even if you fail, and I don't think you will, you are already an assassin."

"And you have a better master." Asma chimes in.

"And a better life." Nisa adds, pulling her in for another hug. "Oh we're glad you're alright, honey."

Their friendly gesture warms Ambra up. How wonderful they are all. If only her friends can be here... Ambra smiles tightly.

The gate leading to the garden is suddenly opened, startling the courtesans and her. Nisa lets her go, and Ambra immediately wipes her face from tears. Her heart sinks to her stomach upon seeing Altaïr, frowning, as he looks around.

His sharp hazel eyes drop to the flock of courtesans, and eventually to Ambra. "There you are." He says.

Ambra stands up, the courtesans as well, and neither gives a way for her or him. Talia stands up from her seat, approaching Altaïr, "My, it's been so long since you show your face, darling." She flicks her hair, uncovering her breasts behind the transparent tops.

"I'm not here for you," Altaïr replies, looking back at Ambra. "Let's go."

Talia puts her hand on Altaïr's upper arm, stopping him, "Oh my, how tensed you are, darling. Relax." She offers a sultry smile, and Ambra does not know what she intends to do.

Altaïr shakes her hand off of him, "Unhand me, woman." He looks at Ambra again, "Ambra, now."

Ambra walks through the courtesans, parting them lightly, and they give her the space she needs. She stands in front of Altaïr, and he grabs her by the upper arm. The courtesans gasp, and Talia puts her hand on Altaïr's arm again, "Careful, Altaïr. You might be rude to us, but don't you dare be rude to her."

"Hands off, Talia." Altaïr warns her again.

Ambra holds Talia's hand, "He is not hurting me."

The courtesan lets her hand off of Altaïr, moving away from him, squeezing Ambra's hand before letting go entirely. Altaïr ushers Ambra away from the garden, the latter reluctantly follows. He opens the gate for them, "What did I say about keeping your distance to them?"

"They did nothing, Altaïr." Ambra replies quietly as they walk down the stairs.

"Altaïr!" Talia's voice booming in the library. The assassin stops to turn around, annoyed. She is standing behind the window, beautiful face contorts into seriousness. "You better take care of her!" She says.

Altaïr does not reply as he continues walking away, letting Ambra go once they have exited the castle.

 

Altaïr has a look of an angry man, different from his usual expression. He is nearly stoic, spare for the usual night discussion in his room, surrounded with Tholeb, Hamzah, and Sofyan. Tonights topic is about foreign language, and it still baffles her how easily the four of them switch language to French. Its the language of the Crusaders. "You'd be surprised of what you can learn from their conversation." He reminds his students.

Did I disappoint him? Ambra constantly asks herself. She realizes how difficult it must be to train her the impatience in Altaïrs gaze is enough answer, and it makes her wish shed be stronger to live up to his expectation. Not to mention his order to keep her distance with the courtesans, but Ambra does not understand the need for her to do so. Why does he hate them so much?

It is after the lecture that Altaïrs air of anger dissipates. Ambra has sat down on her side of the carpet, waiting for him to lie down, so she can rest as well. But he is taking his time to remove his effects. "Tell me something, Ambra." he finally speaks as he is removing his holster and hood in swift motion. "If you were free, unbound from your duty, what will you do?"

She frowns again, blinking in disbelief at the question. He takes notice of her confusion.

"I was born and raised as a free man. Who I am right now is from the decisions I make and the actions I take. I think and speak whatever I like, agreeing and refusing, and do anything that I believe is right." He continues, "You were born and raised by fear, chained and treated as a property. Your feeling and opinion didn't matter to those who owned you. My question right now, do you see me as someone who owns you?"

He is gazing into her eyes, and she instantly looks away, half in fear. Why the question? Where is he heading with this? "I... I belong to you, Altaïr."

"Do you respect me or fear me?" He asks, continues removing his effects.

"Both." She answer.

"As your instructor or as your master?"

"B-both."

He hums in reply, now dressed in his inner tunic and trousers, the usual sleeping attire. He takes a seat in front of her, relaxed, but it still makes her nervous. "Look at me."

She raises her head to look at him, almost whimpering as their eyes meet. His golden orbs are sharp, but for once, they look gentler. He raises a hand to her, and the sudden motion sends her moving back, knowing what it was from experience. She has been dreading this moment since he fetched for her in the garden. What is he like when he is angry? What kind of punishment will he deliver to her?

He stops, his palm bares to her. She can see the lines clearly, the calloused bits, and the faint scars. "A newly arrived horse is not used to human contact, and may flee in fear or attack in self-defense. One does not walk up forcefully to a horse, hoping it will follow my lead. But one bares oneself first to establish trust." He says with a tone that sounds calmer than usual. "I...may be late to notice your lack of trust in me, but neither of us is at fault. You didn't exactly grow up exercising your rights as a human, and I wasn't aware of what you've been through. I'll keep my hand here, and you may give yours whenever you're ready."

She looks at him, finding a hopeful glint in his eyes, but mostly masked by calm composure. She clears her throat, dusting off the front of her tunic absentmindedly, nervous more than anything. "I...apologize."

"No need to." He replies.

"I should. You were forced to be my master, yet I havent been a good servant to you. I'm sorry..." She bites her inner bottom lip.

To her surprise, Altaïr lets out a lighthearted chuckle, and he smiles. The pouty lips turn upwards, almost into a grin, and the simple action makes him look more humane. She cannot help but smile a bit at him. "Forced is not the word I'd be using to describe it. It was an honor to be trusted with this responsibility by Al-Mu'alim. Though I have to admit, there's no lesson on how to act as a master." He says.

Ambra raises her hand a bit, and a bit hesitantly, she moves it to his palm. The tips of her fingers feel the rough texture of his hand, the calloused part, and the lines. His long digits bear proof of years of climbing and sword fighting.

"Are you disappointed in me, Altaïr?" She finds herself asking, her hand stills in his palm, but he makes no move to encase it.

"Your progress is slower than others, you lack strength, but at least you have good endurance." He replies, fingers widening slowly, and she mimics his action. "Gullible and like to please, timid - but you can be quite stubborn and curious. I told you to keep your distance from the courtesans.

"I'm sorry." She shyly replies, feeling the warmth of his hand, as he slowly encases her palm in his.

He hums, fingers intertwining with hers. The intense warmth startles her. "Keep your eyes on me." He mutters before she can pull her hand away.

She blushes deeply as she finds him looking at her, gaze unfaltering. He registers her blush, eyes flicking a bit to her cheek before returning to her emerald orbs. How wonderful, she finds herself thinking, as she looks at the glint in his golden orbs from the fire of the oil lamp. She sighs audibly, body slumping a bit from her rigid posture - and he brings their hands down together, linked to each other.

"I'm not mad nor disappointed in you." He suddenly says, raising his other hand that misses one finger. "My only concern is that you'd be dependent on me. Don't be. You may be my servant and student, but you're also an assassin and a human being. Take your rights, say and do whatever you want," he pauses as she places her hand in his, "but don't forget our creed, and the rules I've established for you."

"Yes, Altaïr." She replies, fingers tracing the stub of his ring finger, feeling the smooth surface. Somehow this is calming, that she does not remember having her other hand in his. She sighs, "I miss my friends..."

"I'm sure you do."

"I don't know if they're alright or not. My disappearance - J-Jaqq would definitely punish someone for it." She instinctively tightens her grips onto Altaïr's hands, but quickly realizes what she has done. "I'm - I'm sorry."

"You're lonely." His golden orbs are looking intently at her.

"No - I have you here, I have the brethren - I -"

"All men and no women." He cuts her off. She caresses the stub of his ring finger again, feeling comfort from it. He encases her hand in his, then brings it down. "Is that why you went to the garden today?

She nods, "I thought I'd talk to them."

He continues, "They may be curious about you, and questions will be asked. I'm certain they'll ask inappropriate questions as well, but pay them no mind." His thumb caresses hers, and it sends her cheeks ablaze. "If their presence gives you peace, you're free to visit them after training, as long as you'll return to the room before the lecture. Female companions might do better for a change."

Her heart skips a beat at his words. Is he serious? "Are you not angry at me?"

He frowns, "For wanting to fulfil your social needs? Its your right."

My right... Suddenly, the intense warmth of his hands feel too much to her. She bites her trembling lower lip, looking at him, trying to contain her emotions. The sadness and the happiness, the worry and the calmness, yet he returns her gaze with the same expression: stoic. "Why are you so kind to me?" She finds herself asking. "In all my life, a person in control is never kind nor patient. Yet you show me mercy, despite my presence bothering you so -" a tear falls to her cheek, and she pulls her hand to wipe it off. But he insists on keeping her hand in his, "I'm sorry -"

"Hush." He says quietly, and the gentleness of it sends her crying more. It aches. It feels like she is in a foreign world that never knows slavery, that her past fifteen years have been a vivid dream, that right now she is being reborn as another person - and it worries her so. What if it is not worthy? What if her friends are long gone? What if she forgets of them all?

She bows down, hunched over, and she is taken aback as Altaïr moves a bit closer to let her forehead rest on his shoulder. One of his hand moves to the back of her head, holding her in place as she cries more upon his gentle action. All of her fear, her anxiety, her false judgment of him, wash away in small drops of tears staining the front of his tunic. The room is quiet spare for her cries.

"What is your wish again?" Altaïr asks over her ear, voice soothing.

She sniffles before answering, "T-to kill J-J-Jaqq."

"To what purpose?"

"To save my friends." She presses her face to his tunic, feeling his hand caressing the back of her head. His other hand holds her hand still, offering warmth from the palm.

"Give it time and dedication, and you'll soon kill the man on your own." He mutters in her ear. "Do you trust me?"

She inhales deeply, imagining the look on Jaqq's face once he realizes his death. The time of his cruelty is nearing its end - and she will be the one sent to deliver it. She huffs a shuddering breath, "Please guide me..."

Altaïr only nods. But it is enough answer for her. Trust him, she reminds herself. A highly skilled assassin as her master and instructor, paired with her determination, surely nothing can go wrong, right?


	7. Chapter 7

Time flies when you are too caught up in something. Altaïr only realizes this as another summer passes. Has it already been a year since Ambra first arrived here?

Altaïr has been watching her intently. With the numbers of mission he has to finish, he has placed her under the supervision of the other instructors. However, there was a time when he was gone for six days, and he returned to find her nowhere in the room or the field, but in the garden with the courtesans. They were laughing and dancing, a dance that if he recalled was a traditional dance. And for once, seeing the carefree attitude in her, he let her have fun until she noticed his presence. She blushed, embarrassed, before coming up to greet him.

He has been supervising her missions too. Although they were only scout mission, like eavesdropping, following a target, pickpocketing, it still worried him. She almost got caught many times, but thankfully managed to slip in the crowd, hidden like a commoner. The training he has pressed on her proves to be aiding her well, as she demonstrated it during missions. Now how to introduce her to the blade...

But her progress does not always satisfy Altaïr. He has noticed that whenever she was sparring, the students would turn to look at her, specifically to look at her body. The instructors have tried to make them busy, but they still managed to steal a glance or two. Altaïr once has to stop a spar because Jamal, Majd's student, was pinning her to the ground rather intimately. From that incident, he forbids her from hand-to-hand sparring with other students.

Today is the big day for the assassins: the elevation. When the instructors have concluded that their students have achieved a certain skill or two, their ranks in the Brotherhood are elevated. All of Altaïr's students, except for Ambra, are in the fourth rank, and they are about to be elevated to fifth rank. Which means he can start to assign them with assassination target without worrying they might fail.

Today is also a big day for Ambra. Altaïr deems her skillful enough that she will be elevated to second rank. Which means she will receive a sword and a hidden blade.

Altaïr remembers his elevation. He was twelve, still training with Labib and Abbas at that time. The cutting of the finger scared him, but he tried to be brave. It was painful. He had a fever for two days, until he finally embraced the hidden blade as an extension of his finger.

The training field is filled with mentors and students. Al-Mu'alim is giving a speech in front of the crowd, congratulating and motivating the students, reminding them of their creed. When he has done, the elevation begins.

Al-Mualim calls forth a list of sixth ranked assassins, those that have finished their training with their instructors. Malik and Abbas are in the line. Al-Mualim bestows upon them new throwing knives holsters, elevating their ranks to the seventh. Then he calls forth the seventh ranked assassins, Rauf included, and he grants them their new ranks. There is a smile on Rauf's face upon receiving a customized sword from Al-Mualim.

Then the eighth ranked assassin is called and the only name in the list is Altaïrs. He steps forward to the Grand Mentor. Al-Mualim has that proud glint in his eyes, something that makes Altaïr feels even prouder of himself. He accept a new dagger from him, a wonderfully carved blade with sleek design.

The now ninth ranked assassin, Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad, steps down to join his brethren. A small smirk on the side of his face, as he realizes what this means. He is getting closer to the highest rank in the Brotherhood, but more than that, his skills have improved greatly.

One by one, the instructors take their turns to elevate their students. As Altaïr waits for his turn, he notices Ambra standing beside him, fidgeting with her sash. "Congratulation, Altaïr."

"Likewise." He replies. "Are you nervous?"

She groans lowly, "I'm going to lose a finger, yes, I am nervous." She replies quietly, looking up at him, worried. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes." He replies honestly, and her expression worsens. "It is a commitment, Ambra. Either you are one with the creed or not. Remember the words -"

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted." She says, gulping. "Was it hard for you?"

Altaïr holds out his hand, "Give me your ring finger," he says. He fishes his pouch for a leather strip, and he ties the base of her ring finger with it. Tightly, until he is certain she cannot feel anything in that finger. "Do you feel this?" He pinches the tip of her ring finger.

She shakes her head, "No."

"Take a deep breath and relax. I will make it swift." He says.

When Altaïr's turn finally comes, he steps to the front, followed by his students. They bow down towards Al-Mu'alim whom gestures them to continue. Two guards stand beside Altaïr with wooden trays in their hands, while the students, and Ambra, stand in front of him.

"For demonstrating an excellent skill in climbing and free running, proudly, I elevate your ranks." Altaïr speaks, voice loud so to be heard. "Hamzah," he calls, and Hamzah steps in. He hands him a pair of gloves from the tray. Hamzah bows down before stepping back in line. "Tholeb," this time Tholeb steps in, receiving his gloves, and returns to the line. "Sofyan." Altaïr hands him the last pair of gloves.

Two guards bring a wooden table to the front and place it in front of Altaïr. Another guard comes bringing a metal tool, and Altaïr swears he can hear Ambra's heart beating faster.

"For demonstrating an excellent skill in bare handed combat, I proudly elevate your rank. Ambra." He calls, motioning her to stand in his place, looking towards the crowd.

Ambra approaches the table as instructed, and Altaïr takes her left hand. Her palm is cold to touch, and he is worried she might faint. That will not be an excellent demonstration. He stands beside her, placing her hand into the metal device, locking her hand and fingers in place.

"Take a deep breath," he whispers. He waits until she inhales the third time, and he presents her his newly accepted dagger. She looks at it, then him, clearly scared. "Eyes to the front." He instructs her, "and take another deep breath."

When he presses the dagger through her ring finger, he is expecting a yelp or a grunt from her. Yet she only whimpers quietly, jaw clenching, and her other hand is gripping her own tunic tightly. Altaïr removes her hand from the device, letting the guard cleans up the table from her severed finger and trail of blood.

Then comes the painful part.

There is a burning furnace on the side of the stage. The guard fetches a metal rod from inside. The tip is red by the heat. He hands it to Altaïr.

Another whimper escapes Ambra's lips as Altaïr presses the tip to her severed ring finger, sealing the wound completely. She holds her breath until he removes the rod, returning it to the guard. Altaïr takes a bandage from the tray, wrapping her stub with it, before removing the leather strip that he has tied before.

"Very well, Ambra." He whispers before presenting her with the hidden blade. He ties it to her arm, looping the wiring switch to her stub. When it is done, he gestures her to try it out.

Ambra flicks her wrist, and the blade extends perfectly. She gasps at the sight, gripping the blade between her little finger and middle finger, and Altaïr is glad color has returned to her tanned face. She lets the blade returns to its original position, as Altaïr hands her a sheathed sword, an addition to her armory. She accepts it, bows down to Altaïr, before falling back in line.

After Altaïr and his students step down, it is Malik's turns. Altaïr stands on the side, watching Malik elevating his students' ranks. Ambra leans against the wall beside him. "I feel weird." She says to him.

"Just breathe." He replies, looking at her. "It doesn't hurt that much, doesn't it?"

"Excruciating." She replies, inhaling and exhaling quietly. Her left hand is left hanging, while the right one is clutching onto her sash tightly. "No one told me about that last part."

"It is not something to tell about. Originally, you are not to be told about the process. But I have to make sure you won't pass out of fear during elevation. Some has." He replies.

After the elevation has been concluded and done, the assassins are dismissed for the day. Kadar immediately approaches Ambra, followed by his brethren, "How was it?" He asked her.

Ambra raises her left hand, flicking the wrist to unsheathe the blade, "I'm getting familiar with it."

"You looked so scared earlier. Are you alright?" Bilal comments, and Altaïr frowns upon seeing the small smile on the side of his lips. He glances at Ambra, even more surprised to see her cheeks beaming red.

"She will be." Altaïr replies for her, turning to Bilal with arms crossed in front of his chest.

Altaïr watches Kadar telling her about his hidden blade. It was painful, and Malik laughed at his display of shock. Utsman told his experience as well, about being feverish for three days that he talked in his sleep and hallucinated. Rahim is more excited about the dagger he received. But when Bilal shares his story with her, he notices Ambra lights up at his words.

After the four of them bid farewell, saying they are going to the city, Altaïr turns to Ambra, arms still crossed. "Tell me honestly, what do you think of Bilal?" He asks as they are walking back to the compound.

His eyes never deceive him, but right now he wishes they do. He sees her pupils slightly dilate at the mention of his name, the cheeks flushed, "He is a good person." She replies quietly.

"Is something going on between the two of you?" He quickly adds, "Look at me, Ambra."

Ambra looks up to him, still with the flushed face. "Nothing's going on between him and me, Altaïr."

Her words are not reassuring enough, but her expression does not tell lie. He nods in acknowledgement of her answer.

Back in the room, the idea of spending the day leisurely for Altaïr is by meditating. He could spend hours in the process. It is important for an assassin to always have a clear mind. A troubled mind will only hinder his judgment, and it will lead into failure during mission. He sits down on the carpet, crossing his legs, and closing his eyes. Then he regulates his breathing.

Ambra sits down opposite him, doing the same pose, following him. He has taught her how to meditate, but he believes she is not yet at heart with it. "Stop moving, Ambra." He mutters.

"I'm sorry." She whispers.

The meditation is finished an hour later. Altaïr sighs, relief washes upon his face. All of his worries and problems are shoved aside. He cannot say the same for Ambra, though, she looks horrible.

As if answering his unspoken question, she suddenly falls backwards. Altaïr lunges, grabbing the collar of her tunic to pull her up. "Ambra -" he calls her, holding her head in one hand, and he feels her skin burning. The fever has started.

He lifts her up in his arms. Even the back of her knees and her breath feel hot against him. He turns to place her on her side of the carpet. She is unconscious. The breathing is labored, the skin is hot to touch, and she is not sweating. Altaïr removes her armbraces, placing them aside, so he can look at her stub. It looks alright, he concludes.

He removes her hood, giving her more space to breathe. He turns her to the side so he can remove her belt and sash, taking the sword with him. She comes to when he places them aside. Her eyes are open, looking at him weakly, "I feel heavy." She says.

"You're having a fever. Rest for today." he replies. He stands up to place her effects in the wardrobe. He grabs a cloth from it, then heads to the clay jug to wet it. He returns to her side bringing a cup of water and the wet cloth. "Drink up." He holds her head in one hand, helping her sit up to drink.

"Thank you, Altaïr." She replies as he lies her back down, placing the wet cloth over her forehead.

Altaïr watches her closing her eyes, her breathing gets evenly quickly, and she slips into a sleep. He sighs, smiling at her, suddenly remembers when he tried to act brave after the elevation, only to end up being confined to rest, the act faltered. Just like her, lowering her act of being brave. She was terrified during the elevation, he knows it.

He decides to head to the healer to buy cure for Ambra, keeping his rooms window open to let a breeze in. A fever is not something to take lightly. As he steps out of the fortress, a familiar voice greets him. "Altaïr."

"Master." Altaïr nods at Al-Mualim, finding him walking to the city of Masyaf surrounded by guards.

"Congratulations for your elevation, and your students. You clearly have taught them well." Al-Mu'alim says, walking beside Altaïr down the hill.

"Their training is of how you trained me, Master." Altaïr replies.

"And your Ambra. She took the ceremony quite bravely." Al-Mu'alim chuckles.

"Yes, she did. She is resting as of right now. The fever gets to her rather quickly."

"Ah, I pray for her well-being. Speaking of her, have you any trouble with her?"

Altaïr shakes his head, "She is obedient enough to follow orders, but her nature is curious. I find her willing to learn, and capable of being stubborn at times, but otherwise, she is easy to handle."

Al-Mu'alim has a satisfied smile on his face, "I see you have warmed up to her. That is good. I was afraid that the brethren may harass her, but now Im at ease, knowing she would not be seen as a prize to win."

Altaïr frowns, "I'm sorry, Master, what do you mean?"

"Did you not hear about Majd's students who are caught talking inappropriately of her? They were betting whether or not she was untouched, but Majd caught them in action. They are serving time in the dungeon now." Al-Mu'alim explains. "I'm glad you have been the first to touch her. I cannot bear thinking someone would defile her in training." There must have been a look on Altaïr's face, since Al-Mu'alim suddenly adds, "You have touched her, have you?"

To this, Altaïr shakes his head, "No, Master. She is untouched."

Al-Mu'alim stops briefly in his track, sighing, "Then you best be keeping an eye on her, unless someone would steal that away." Then he resumes walking.

Altaïr does not understand the need for him to bed Ambra. It is as if she has not been through enough. Even though he is permitted to do anything to her, he cannot bring himself to be that heartless, pushing himself on her for his own need. Yet Al-Mu'alim's warning rests in the back of his head. Suddenly he regrets letting the window open.

They are walking through the city of Masyaf, heading back to the fortress when Altaïr remembers something. "Master, I have a business to attend to. May I take the leave?" He asks, and quickly elaborates, "I intend to visit the healer, to get a cure for the fever."

"By all means, you are allowed to leave." Al-Mu'alim smiles. "Give my regards to Ambra, and by Allah, Altaïr, take care of her." He says before heading to the fortress.o

There are many healers in Masyaf, but only one of them is the most potent. Zahra is a middle aged woman who tends her business with her husband and daughters. Altaïr always comes to her whenever he is injured or ill, although the latter rarely occurs. When he steps into her shop, a strong scent of herbs is boiling in the air.

"Altaïr, yes?" Zahra's husband, Abdullah, asks from behind the counter. "What do you need?"

"I need a cure for fever." Altaïr replies. The incense on the counter has a sweet smell to it, as if trying to counter the smell of the medicine, but it does not work at all.

"For you?" Abdullah asks.

"For my student."

Abdullah heads into a separate room inside the store, and Altaïr waits for him to return. Instead, Zahra comes out, rather surprised to see him. "Oh, Altaïr. Are you injured? Or just buying herbs?"

"Just buying herbs." He replies, smiling slightly at her.

"Oh dear, you still have the scar." She approaches him, frowning. "If only you came to me when the wound still fresh, I could make it less noticeable. But, no worries, I heard women like seeing men with scars, huh, believe me, my daughters are like that." She chuckles. "I can't say the same for men, though."

Abdullah returns not long after from the inside, bringing a pouch filled with herbs. He opens it to show the content to him, and the smell makes Altaïr flinches at first. "This comes from the Eastern merchants. It may smell horrible, but it works better than the usual." He takes out a roll of herbs, "Once after every meal, two or three times a day."

Altaïr receives the pouch, taking out his coins to pay. "Any side effect I should know?"

"Hmm... Not that I know of. It depends on the fever. If it's too high, your student might hallucinate and talk in sleep. If the fever hasn't come down in three days, come visit us." Abdullah receives the coins from Altaïr. The assassin mutters a 'thank you' before leaving.

The next place Altaïr has to visit is the dining hall. It is not as crowded as usual, as most of the students are out in the city, finally getting to enjoy their own time. Too bad, the food today is meat stew with pieces of potatoes in it. He sits down at an empty table, and starts filling his bowl.

The bread goes so well with the stew. Altaïr eats quietly, but quickly, as he remembers there is a student he has to feed. When his bowl is clean and empty, he takes a new bowl and fills it with the stew, adding pieces of bread into the broth as well. Then he stands up, ready to leave, if only that bastard would stop grinning like an idiot...

Malik enters the dining hall, Kadar trailing behind him, unamused. He has a wide grin on his face, satisfied from all of his students' elevation earlier. Altaïr cannot say the same for Kadar, though, he looks forced. Malik notices Altaïr walking to him, noticing the bowl in his hand, "Taking the lunch somewhere, Altaïr?"

"It's for Ambra." Altaïr replies.

"The fever has begun?" Malik's grin fades, "that is quick. We used to have fever the next day, not afterwards."

Altaïr shrugs, "The weather has not been nice either these days."

"True, true, it's almost winter." Malik replies. "Hopefully she will get well soon. The hidden blade training is the most exciting one."

After bidding farewell, Altaïr quickly heads back to the compound before the bowl of stew gets any colder. When he has opened his door, he heaves a sigh of relief upon seeing Ambra still in the position before he left. He places the bowl on the table and heads to the window, promptly closing and locking it.

Altaïr removes his boots and place them beside the door, next to Ambra's. He washes his hands with the water from the clay jug, then takes the bowl, and sits down beside her. "Ambra, wake up." He shakes her shoulder gently, rousing her up.

She groans before opening her eyes, the emerald orbs that immediately widen when he touches her forehead and cheek to feel how feverish she is. It still has not come down. He helps her sit up, letting her lean against the wall, "What is that?" She asks.

"Meat stew. You should eat." He replies, offering her the bowl, then hesitates. "Can you eat on your own?"

She shakes her head, "I'm not hungry."

"It is lunchtime, you are hungry." He takes a spoonful of meat stew, testing if it is still hot. The broth is warm. He takes another spoonful and offers it to her. "Don't make me order you." He says as she still closes her mouth.

Eventually she opens her mouth and takes the food in. She chews rather slowly, then swallows. Altaïr is ready with the next spoonful of stew. For a while, the silence fills the room. Ambra groans when the bowl is half empty, "No more, please." She sighs the words.

"Just one more." Altaïr replies, feeding her as she complies. "Another one." He adds, and she hesitantly complies. "This is the last one." He says, and she stops.

"You lied." She looks at him, hazy eyes and pouting, the first time he ever sees her does that. He smiles slightly at her face, as she takes in another spoonful of stew.

When the bowl is finally empty, she looks like she is ready to fall asleep again. Altaïr helps her drink, then he takes out the pouch filled herbs. She flinches at the smell. He takes one roll off of the pouch and offers it to her, "For your fever."

"I'd rather not." She shakes her head.

"It is not that horrible." He says, then adds sternly as she has not opened her mouth. "Ambra, should I order you?"

She shakes her head again, "No, I'm sorry." She complies, opening her mouth to take the roll, immediately turning sour from the contact. Altaïr hands her a cup of water, and she weakly drinks up, quickly washing up the taste. When the cup is empty, she pouts again, "Stop lying..."

Altaïr chuckles, setting the bowl and cup aside, and helps her lie back down. Her cheek is still burning in his palm. He rises up to clean the clutter and storing the horrible herbs on the shelf. Ambra still has her eyes open, breathing rather labored. "How do you feel?" He asks from where he is standing.

"Like burning." She mutters.

"Sleep, Ambra. You'll feel better afterwards." He says, watching her closing her eyes, frowning, pressing her back against the wall where it is colder. He sits down on the carpet beside her, waiting for her to fall asleep in case she needs anything else. It takes a while for her to finally settle. She keeps opening her eyes, then closing it for a while, until finally she falls asleep.

Altaïr uses the rest of the free time to train. He practices swinging his sword, making mental notes on what to add for Ambra's training. He shuffles forward, swinging the sword, then jumping backwards, landed with no sound at all on his calloused feet. He occasionally glances at the sleeping student, in case she wakes up from his noise.

The sky has turned dark gray with promises of a great rain or hail as he heads for the bathhouse for a quick bath. As he is washing himself in the pool, his mind wanders. His thought is never constant, and as of right now, he is thinking of the possibility of an upcoming mission. He'd like to try sending Hamzah, Sofyan, and Tholeb on their solo assassination mission. Each of them has their own virtues. Hamzahs precision with throwing knives makes Altaïr wonders if he is capable to wield a crossbow. Sofyan, despite his first mistake on a horse, is capable of fighting while riding one. While Tholeb has a quick pair of feet, and is the fastest among the three. And then there is Ambra.

Range is not her virtue, neither is strength nor speed. Perhaps accuracy - Altaïr contemplates to give her throwing knives to train with. Friendliness is one of her virtue outside battle. People seem to like her easily. But that is not going to help her in combat. Altaïr finishes his bath, and decides to stop by the library. Perhaps there is something he can teach her from the guidebooks, something he has not yet learned or seen before.

When he steps into the castle, the scholar behind the table looks up at him. "I thought most of you are in the city." He says before returning to his scrolls.

Altaïr walks through the shelves glancing at the titles of the books. He knows most of the subjects already, it is only tedious to learn what he has known.

His search is fruitless, but not entirely. He glances at a medical book. The thick, leather-bound book, if he correctly recalls, is where he learned about the weakest points in human body. Most of the theories works, some of them don't. It does not hurt to try and read... He grabs it from the shelf.

"I'm borrowing this." He tells the scholar.

The scholar glances at the book, then at Altaïr, "Why would you need to learn this, I have no idea." He makes note on who borrows the book and when, before telling Altaïr, "Return it in a week, undamaged, if you could."

Before Altaïr leaves the library, he feels someone is watching him. He turns around, checking if it is the scholar, yet he has returned to his scrolls. His gaze drops to a face, peeking from outside the window. He approaches the gate to the garden.

"What are you doing?" He asks after reaching the top of the stairs. Alma, one of the courtesans, grins at him from being caught red handed.

"I thought I saw a gorgeous assassin lurking in the library." She winks at him.

Altaïr goes unmoving, not even a blush, "You're looking for Ambra, aren't you?"

Alma immediately shakes her head, "Oh no, just you."

"She is resting right now. Fever." Altaïr glances at the garden, noticing the courtesans pretending to fan themselves. He turns around to leave.

When he is back in the room, he finds Ambra still asleep. She is lying on her side, hugging a pillow, and for once she looks at peace. Altaïr opts to sit down on his side of the carpet, leaning against the wall, and starts to read.

The book provides no more new information to him, but it is interesting to check back with what he already knows. He flips the pages rather quickly, but carefully, to avoid the wrath of the scholar if he knows how he has treated the book. The pages are now talking about pressure points, where to touch to render a target immobile, how to make them faint with a pinch to the neck, and of course, the pain and pleasure points.

He only needs to learn to immobilize his target, not causing them pain or even pleasure. A simple hit behind the head or across the jaw will easily knock them out. Yet this unread pages peak his interest. Perhaps there is something he can teach to Ambra. Here's to hope her fingers are strong enough...

When dinner comes, he leaves for the dining hall. When he returns, however, bringing another bowl of stew, he finds her still in the same position. Has she passed out? He sits down and tries to wake her up.

When he touches her, she immediately opens her eyes, "It's cold."

"Are you cold?" He frowns. Her skin is still burning up.

"No, your hand." She sighs.

That's it, I'm giving her cold compress. He helps her to sit up, "Can you eat?"

She nods, reaching for the spoon while Altaïr holds the bowl. Her fingers tremble when lifting it to her mouth, but she eats nonetheless. He watches her finish the stew, she wipes her lips with the back of her hand. He hands her a roll of herbs, and she groans.

"You're getting better." He says. She takes a deep breath before stuffing her mouth with it, closing her eyes in response to the taste. He hands her a cup of water.

"It tastes worse than before." She croaks after finishing the cup. Altaïr takes her left hand to check the stub. "What are you doing?"

"Changing the bandage." He removes the bandage around her ring finger. She flinches when he peels it off of the healing stub. "Take a deep breath." He says, and as she does, he peels the bandage quickly.

The stub is in dark color, and a bit red around the edges of the wound. The cauterization must have burns her finger rather closely than he thinks. He wraps a new bandage around her stub.

"I'm sorry..." Ambra suddenly says.

"For what?" Altaïr does not look at her.

"Abandoning my duty. I'm sorry." She replies.

Altaïr sighs, looking up at her hazy eyes, "My duty as your instructor is to make sure you don't die from a simple wound." He finishes wrapping her stub. "You might have to take an ointment for that burn. Let's see..." He stands up, heading to the wardrobe. If he is not wrong, there should be a small box of ointment in there. He has used it to treat blisters caused by frictions with the sword. He finds the box in his side of wardrobe, returning to Ambra to see her already lying down.

He sits down again, taking her left hand, and opening the box. He takes a small amount of the ointment and covers the bandage with it. She hisses at the contact. "I don't think the herbs are working." She groans.

"It's too early to judge." Altaïr replies, returning her hand. With the rain starting to pour outside, and the thunders booming from the sky, he watches her lying still and falling asleep. He lies down on his side, preparing to take a rest to end his leisure day.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fever awakens Ambra's worst nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: depiction and mention of abuse.

Ambra swears she is not dreaming.

Her hands clutching the unfamiliar silk sheet that builds her fear. The smell in the room, the burning incense, she sees her reflection in the large mirror of the room. The poster bed she awakes in sends her shuffling away. She touches her cheeks, this is not a dream... But this cannot be happening.

Her eyes are scanning the interior of the room, fearing the worst. Her feet lands on the polished marble floor, she approaches herself in the mirror. How can I be here? She still wears the assassin robe, did Altaïr bring me here? Did I get captured?

A door opens in the distance, and she freezes in place. I have to get out... She tries to find a weapon, sighing when finding the hidden blade is still attached to her left arm. She heads to the door, trying to get it open. It's locked...

She heads to the window, opening the frame quickly. The wind is cold, the sky is dark, as it is night time. She climbs out of the window. There is only a short distance between her and the ground, she knows, yet when she looks down, the ground has disappeared.

A hand grabs her from behind, and she yelps. "Hush... It's me."

No, there is no way it is her.

Sofi smiles the most gentle and loving smile Ambra has ever seen. She falls into her hug, back into the room, inhaling the familiar smell of dirt in her tunic. Sofi is caressing the back of her head, "Master's coming." She whispers. "You have to go."

Ambra shakes her head, "No, I can kill him." She shows her the hidden blade. "Where are the others, Sofi? How did I get here?"

Sofi lets her go from her hug, "Master is in the house. Hide!"

She shoves Ambra into the wardrobe, right when the door is unlocked. A shiver runs down Ambra's spine upon seeing the face she thought she has forgotten. Jaqq stands tall in the doorway. His bearded face shows displease. The black eyes scanning the room, brows furrowing. His big body covers the door almost entirely. In his waist, the dark leather whip is hanging threateningly. The ivory cane in his hand is splattered by blood.

"Where is she?" His voice is booming. Ambra cannot help but tremble.

Sofi bows down, face kissing the floor, "I don't know, master."

The cane lands to the side of her face, "I'll ask again. Where is Ambra?" Sofi whimpers as the cane pushes her down to the floor. Jaqq removes his whip, "Last chance."

Jaqq swings his whip, and Ambra launches herself from the wardrobe, clenching the hidden blade between her fingers. She leaps at Jaqq, yet the man simply pushes her with his cane. Ambra falls back, holding her chest where the cane makes contact.

"How could you leave, Ambra?" He says, coming up to her. He swings the whip at her, and she ducks. He suddenly gets closer, slapping her across the face with the cane. Ambra falls down to the floor.

She sees Sofi grabbing onto Jaqq's feet, "Please, hit me, master. Not her! Not her! Please!"

"Silence! You utter nothing but lies and betrayal! Take her away!" Jaqq motions to the door. Two guards appear, and they grab ahold of Sofi's arms, pulling her away from their master. "You, Ambra, have disappointed me the most." He grabs hold of her armbrace, "running away with the assassins, disobeying your master," he grips the armbrace tightly, and Ambra screams from the impact, as he easily bends the metal in his hand.

Another cane to the face, and Jaqq throws her to the bed. Ambra grips the edge, only to receive a lashing on her back. She groans as another one comes down to her. Jaqq straddles her back, using his weight to pin her down, as he snakes the whip around her neck, choking her tightly. She grabs onto the leather, trying to loosen it, as she finds it harder to breathe.

A tumbling comes from the window, and both of them turn to look at the source of the noise. The angel of death dressed in white, unsheathing his sword, face contorts into anger. "Unhand her!"

No, not Altaïr. However skillful he is, Jaqq is powerful. Even if he can penetrate the defense around the mill, there are still guards to fight in the house. Jaqq lets go of her neck, hitting the back of her head with his knuckles, as he stands up to face Altaïr. Ambra uses the opportunity to climbs off of the bed, feet trembling against the floor.

"Run!" Altaïr barks the order at her, and she bolts out of the door.

The halls are long and wide, with many doors that lead to a lot more halls. A staircase. She needs to find a staircase. As she gets twisted and turned, she hears a scream. Her heart sinks to the pit of her stomach upon hearing the agonizing scream of Sofi.

She follows the sound desperately, opening and closing so many doors, calling Sofi's name as loudly as she can, until she finally finds the twin marble staircase. She runs down. The scream has gotten louder and terrifying. Where is the bottom of the stairs?!

Something catches her ankle, and she falls forward. She hugs herself, bracing for the impact, as her body tumbles down the staircase for what seems like eternity. Then finally her back hits something hard, and she lies motionless against the cold tiles.

She opens her eyes. Her vision is blurred. The scream is loud in her ears. She tries to get up, flinching upon feeling the cracks of every bones under her skin. There is a groaning from behind her, from the object that stops her at the bottom of the stairs. She turns painfully slowly, and screams.

A line of bodies from outside the front door to the bottom of the staircase. Her friends are lying lifeless, eyes gouged out, lips burned, bodies hacked and sliced almost to bits. Beside her, the familiar white hood and tunics, Altaïr chokes on his own blood.

"No, no, no..." She grabs onto his holster, trying to hold him back for dear life. His eyes look at her, briefly. There is too much blood - her hands are covered in the thick substance. She feels the rise and fall of his chest, the forceful breathing, and he averts his gaze to look behind her.

She turns around to find Jaqq walking down the stairs, a sword in his hand. The sword that he carries inside his ivory cane. He points the tip to Ambra, approaching her. His eyes are wide and full of hate, as he tips her head upwards to look at him, pressing the blade against her throat.

"You see what happens when you disobey me, Ambra?"

This is it.

She stifles a scream as the blade pierces her throat.

"AMBRA!"

A sudden pain is forming on her shoulders, sending her opening her eyes. The first thing she sees is a pair of golden orbs looking at her worriedly, a forehead full of frowns, and the stubbled face of Altaïr. She breathes quickly, "You're alive..."

"I am - are you alright?" He asks, a hand touches her forehead, "you're still feverish -"

The rest of his words goes over her head. It cannot be a dream right? It felt so real. The cane, the whip - she touches her neck, still feeling the leather around it. Sofi - "Sofi!" She suddenly exclaims.

Altaïr grabs her shoulders tightly, "There is no one else. You're having a nightmare. Ambra - look at me - Ambra." His voice - didn't he tell her to run away?

"You have to run," she warns him, words tumbling out of her mouth quickly. "He said he'll kill you. He lined them up - they're dead -"

"Take a deep breath." Altaïr says, calmer than she is.

"N-no! Don't you see? He's coming!" Why wouldn't he understand? There is a loud thumping in her ears, the unbearable ringing, and that sound - thunder? Rain? She shudders.

She swears she sees the door swings open, and she screams upon seeing the dreadful figure that causes it. A scream that is immediately muffled by Altaïr's hand. He rolls over her, encasing her under his body. "Hush! Hush! You're going to wake up everyone!"

Jaqq is coming into the room, walking with his boots on, crossing the floor to stand behind Altaïr. The smile on his face is hideously mischievous, "He's in the room - please, turn around, he's behind you -" she sniffles, pointing behind Altaïr.

The assassin snakes a hand under the pillows, clenching onto what seems to be a blade. He turns around, bringing the dagger into view. Jaqq is there yet Altaïr only sighs and turns back to look her, "There's no one in the room but us, Ambra. You're hallucinating -"

"No, I'm not! He is right there!" She shouts back, only to be silenced by Altaïr's hand again. She yanks his hand away. Jaqq is unsheathing his sword. She grabs Altaïr by the collar of his tunic, trying to pull him and herself from the way of the blade, yet the assassin does not move a muscle. "He's going to stab you!"

"No - calm down -" Altaïr grabs both of her hands, holding them tightly in his grip. Ambra tries to remove her hand from him, "you're going to hurt yourself - stop -"

Ambra manages to yank one hand away. Hastily, she pushes Altaïr to the side, then she sits up, holding herself over Altaïr's body as she sees Jaqq striking down at him. She raises her hand and braces for the impact, yet it never comes. She trembles, seeing the blade has gone through her hand, yet there is no pain at all. She blinks in disbelief. Jaqq is smirking, he is there, but when she blinks again, the room is empty.

Altaïr takes her outstretched hand, bringing it down to him, "There is no one there, Ambra." He tugs her to lie back down. "If there is anyone else in the room, I would have killed them."

Ambra is still trying to process the situation. He was there... He was... Suddenly her head feels heavy and burning. Is this black magic? She is certain Jaqq was in the room.

But all of her uncertainty is washed away as she looks at Altaïr. He is alive and well, and worried. His eyes are still alight with life. She tries to regulate her breathing, trying to appear brave despite her mask already falling to the ground. She cannot lose him no. Jaqq does not know him, does he? Jaqq does not know where she is, right?

Altaïr runs his fingertips over her wet cheeks. "Sleep. I'll be here." He says, still holding to her burning hands. She tenses for a while, keeping her eyes on his golden ones, trying to keep herself grounded on reality. Until she finally relaxes. The exhaustion takes her completely.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altair's POV when Ambra is having a nightmare.

The thunder booms loudly, startling Altaïr awake. He rubs his eyes, sitting up, trying to make out how many hours he has slept. The rain is still pouring down, it has started storming in the middle of the night. He is about to resume sleeping when he hears Ambra groaning.

She is still asleep, but the groan comes frequently from her lips, as if she is in pain. He touches her frowning forehead, finding her still burning up. A nightmare, he concludes.

He notices her left hand is clenching and opening many times, as if she is trying to utilize her hidden blade. The right hand is still and unbothered. She tosses slightly in her sleep, flinching, a name escapes from her lips, "Sofi..."

If Altaïr recalls, Sofi is the name of one of her friends from the mill. He waits to see what kind of nightmare she is having. He still remembers his - it was of Abbas' father killing himself in front of him - even when it does not seem as terrifying as it was before, he wishes he would not have to witness it more than once.

Ambra frowns deeper in her sleep, muttering Sofi's name constantly like a prayer, each one gets louder than before. Altaïr shakes her shoulder gently, "Ambra, wake up."

But his gesture must have done something in her dream mind, because suddenly she becomes restless, and it startles him. She stops before he can do anything, and groans. Whatever it is she is dreaming, it is not pleasant.

He calls her name, louder after each one. When she suddenly kicks and groans in pain, he shakes her awake, yelling her name, "AMBRA!"

Horror is what he first sees in her eyes. The emerald orbs are unfocused, looking around wildly. She looks at him with such disbelief, as if surprised to see him. "You're alive..." The words speak for themselves. He tries to guess her dream; she watched me die?

"I am - are you alright?" He asks, a hand touches her forehead, "you're still feverish, not even sweating. Perhaps the herbs are not that potent -"

Ambra's eyes suddenly widened, "Sofi!" She exclaims.

What of her? Altaïr grabs her shoulders tightly, "There is no one else. You're having a nightmare. Ambra - look at me - Ambra." He tries to get her to focus, yet it seems the more he talks, the more frantic she becomes.

"You have to run," she warns him, words tumbling out of her mouth quickly. "He said he'll kill you. He lined them up - they're dead -"

He?

"Take a deep breath." Altaïr says, calmer than she is, despite fearing that she saw who he thinks it is.

She shakes her head violently, "N-no! Don't you see? He's coming!" Her eyes suddenly looks at the door, and she screams.

By Allah, the entire compound would think she is in danger. Altaïr rolls over her, muffling her mouth with his hand, "Hush! Hush! You're going to wake up everyone!"

Ambra stops screaming but that look of terror adorns her eyes. Her emerald orbs are following something behind Altaïr, "He's in the room - please, turn around, he's behind you -" she sniffles, pointing behind him.

Altaïr tenses. No one can sneak into his room unnoticed, but hed rather not take the chance to face the intruder without a weapon. He grabs the handle of the dagger from under his pillow. If there is indeed someone behind him, however silent he is, he is going to regret sneaking into the room. He turns around, sighing when finding nothing and no one behind him. He looks back at her, "There's no one in the room but us, Ambra. You're hallucinating -"

"No, I'm not! He is right there!" She shouts again, and Altaïr covers her mouth with his hand. He can already hear the questions he will receive in the morning. Ambra yanks his hand away, then suddenly grabs him by the collar, startling him. She pulls against the fabric tightly, as if trying to pull him away from something. "He's going to stab you!"

The words explain a lot to him. She had a nightmare of him dying in the hands of Jaqq, and now she is hallucinating, seeing him in the room with them. It seems that the Jaqq she is seeing is going to assassinate him, however ironic it may seem. Altaïr grabs both of her hands and holds them in his. "No - calm down -" Ambra tries to remove her hand from him. The force is strong and she is willing, "you're going to hurt yourself - stop -"

He finally loosens his grips on her, fearing he might break her fingers. And he watches her sitting up, reaching over him, reaching behind him, arm outstretched as if trying to hold something from falling onto him. The gesture surprises him.

Whatever she is seeing, she has started to look like a person who does not know dream from reality. She has a look of disbelief as Altaïr takes her hand and brings it down between them, back onto the carpet. Her face is flushed, the nose is red from all the crying, and the cheeks are wet with tears.

"There is no one there, Ambra." He tugs her to him, sighing. "If there is anyone else in the room, I would have killed them."

He waits until she calms down, her eyes finally looking at him, less disoriented, less confused, and more focused. She looks glad, at the same time terrified. Her hands are burning in his touch.

"Sleep. I'll be here." He tells her, wiping her wet cheeks with his fingers. He waits until she closes her eyes, the emerald green are heavy. Her shoulders slump into relaxation, as do her hands, and she finally sleeps again. Altaïr heaves a sigh of relief, calming himself down, before following her to sleep.

 

The rain has not stopped yet in the morning. It makes sense, the season is changing. Sometimes it snows, which can be difficult to train in.

Altaïr wakes up first. He opens his eyes, finding himself lying too close to his liking to Ambra. Her hands are still in his, the palms are starting to cool down.

He watches her breathing easily and peacefully. A contrast compared to last night. He still remembers her expression, how determined she was to save him, and he smiles at the thought. If that is one of her duty as a servant, then it collides with his duty as her instructor.

I could wake up to this... He finds himself thinking. What does it feel to be a civilian? To be like Abdullah and Zahra, setting a business together, having family, living peacefully without having to worry about death. To live with someone for a long time, to love them beyond anything, to wake up every morning and their face is the first thing he sees.

Altaïr shrugs the thought away. No. He cannot imagine himself leading that kind of life. This is the only life he knows, the life that honors him, the life that makes him closer to peace. The love for things and mortals will fade overtime. People die. Things perish. Besides, is he not blessed to have excellent students and a loyal servant? In the world that is full of deceit and treachery, companions like them are rare.

He wonders what kind of life she used to lead in the mill. Did she have a childhood? Did she have her share of being abused, beaten, and humiliated? Does she have scars from the past? Nevertheless, last night assures him that her past is not a pleasant topic to be brought up. Although he wonders has she ever spoken of it to anyone? To the brethren or the courtesans?

In a year that she has stayed here, he has learned that she has reached the age of sixteen in the middle of last winter. She told him at night before sleeping, and he was unsure of what to say other than congratulation. None of the brethren seemed to know of her birthday, as neither of them gave their good words to her the whole day. Then this means she will be seventeen this winter, he thinks. How time flies...

She is sixteen and he is twenty one, he reminds himself. His own birthday is never celebrated, none knows of it, not even Al-Mualim. Abbas has knowledge of it, but he never says anything, not since their fallout years ago. He wonders if he should tell Ambra about it this year. After all, she has no one but him. Would it not make her day that he entrusts her with a personal information of him?

Altaïr realizes he is still lying too close to her. I should stop... But why? This is permitted, right? He feels the still smooth texture of Ambra's palms. The tips are starting to get calloused, but nevertheless, still smooth. He looks at her face. The tanned skin, the smoothness of the bridge of her nose, the thin eyebrows, the curve of her face, and the soft lips. Her emerald eyes that are hidden behind the eyelids, protected by dark lashes.

But what he adores most from her is her gaze. The gentle gaze she always gives whenever he is talking to her. The determined and wild gaze when they are training together. The friendly gaze when she talks to the brethren. He adores her apology and gratitude, the way his name rolls off her tongue, the joyous laughter, and the smile or grin that paints her face. She has a face made for smiling.

He adores her determination to be seen as an assassin. Her curiosity upon new things, but always keeping in the line he has made for her. Her desire to please - despite how pathetic it seems for an assassin, as long as it is only to him, he has no problem with it. The nightmare that haunts her, the life that she once led, the dream she has to remedy it - Altaïr is thankful to have her. This is as close as he gets to taste the earthly blessings, and this is more than he deserves.

After all, there are still many years ahead of them.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GET READY FOR A BIT OF NSFW.

Ambra sighs in content as she dips herself in the pool. After two full days of resting, and one long day of training, it feels so good to finally have a bath. Her tensed muscles are slowly relaxing. The cool water soothes the soreness in her upper arms and calves, and when she wets her hair, her scalp feels amazing.

Today's training is new. Altaïr teaches her about the art of hidden blade. The sensation feels weird for her at first, less weird as of right now, but still...weird. The stub has not healed completely, and she has made new cuts along her little finger and middle finger from the blade. Flick the wrist, then clench the hand, not the other way around.

Her training today focuses on her lower arms. Utilizing the hidden blade means she needs to have strong and fast arms to pierce the enemy. A quick reflex is also required, something that she has not yet mastered.

She looks at the bruises in her arms. There are stretch marks around her armpits and shoulders from where the muscles stretch the most. The upper arms have gotten harder when she squeezes them. She massages her arms and shoulders, sighing contently at the small action of comfort.

After taking a bath, she takes her and Altaïr's clean clothes from the storage room, and heads back to the room. She knocks on the door before opening it. Altaïr looks up from the table, a leather-bound book in his hand. He stands up to help her, but she already makes her way to the wardrobe.

"How's your stub?" He asks, eyes returning to his books.

"It's healing." She replies, finishes putting the clothes inside the wardrobe, then closing it. "What are you reading?" She approaches Altaïr, standing behind him to peek over his shoulder. "Pressure points?"

"Yes. There are pressure points in human body that can be deadly if pinched or tapped. Such as the neck," he turns in his chair to look at her, looking up to show her his neck, "if you punch the Adams apple of a man hard enough, it can kill him."

"Really?" She raises her brows, amused.

"I'd like to include this in your training, actually." He returns to his book, "but there is no certainty that it will work. Should we practice on each other, if it proves to be deadly, then you or me could be fatally injured." He sighs, conflicted.

"I don't know. I think the throat punch will work really well." She chuckles, wringing her damp hair with both hands. "Is there any technique that is not deadly? Something that causes sprain or anything less than that?"

Altaïr turns the pages, muttering on his own. He reaches a page about the pressure points in hands, "Give me your hand." He suddenly says, opening his palm to her.

Hesitantly, she gives her right hand to him. He holds it carefully, eyes glancing from the page to her hand. "Is this going to hurt?" She asks, worried.

"Not sure -" he holds the area between her thumb and forefinger, close to the bones, but not quite reaching them. Then he applies pressure bit by bit.

At first, she does not feel a thing, but as he gradually adds pressure, she feels something wrong. It is painful, and feels like she cannot move the other fingers. She yelps, tapping on his hand to tell him to stop, "Ow, ow, ow, that hurts!"

"Oh it does work." He returns her hand, face contorts into amusement at the page. He turns to her, offering his right hand, "Do it to me."

"Are you sure?" She frowns. This is not going to end well - she recalls all the training sessions they have had, she always ends up suffering.

"Yes, I need to know how it feels." He is adamant. Ambra takes his hand, glancing at the page to read the instruction, and positions her hand in the same position as he did before.

She applies a small pressure, and Altaïr frowns. "Too strong?" She asks.

"Not a thing. Try harder." He replies. She presses tighter, and he grunts, "Thats enough."

She lets go of his hand, where a crescent shape from her nail adorns the skin of the back of his hand. He turns the page of the book and continues reading about the method they just practiced.

"'If utilized properly, this technique helps the user to: escape from the grip of the attacker, causing minor to major injury. Intense pressure could paralyze -'" Altaïr stops reading, face turns into worry. Ambra's jaw drops from the string of words. "Perhaps we should have read all the pages before practicing." He clears his throat, closing the book. "Let's discuss this tonight."

The discussion for the night revolves around the book. Altaïr and Ambra sit down across each other, the book opens between them. Altaïr starts by explaining the best parts to stab people; the neck, the left chest where the heart is, the central abdomen slightly upward, the back of the knees or ankles, and, of course, the eyes. He brings out his hidden blade, instructing Ambra to do the same, as he demonstrates the varieties of kill he could do with it. Only then Ambra realizes the reason why the assassins clench the blade between their fingers: to strengthen the strike.

"We'll practice this with the dummy. Let's continue with the pressure points." He says, untying his armbrace.

They store the hidden blades back in the wardrobe and continue to the said pages. Altaïr is frowning upon them, and Ambra understands why. It is almost impossible for half of these to be true. A pinch over this can cause that, a tap here can cause this, yet she is curious of the truth. Can it actually work? It's not like I can practice it with Altaïr without killing him...

"Turn around," he tells her, still frowning at the page. Here we go... She complies, turning around on the carpet. Altaïr collects her hair in his grasp, swiping them to one side of her shoulder, "you should cut it. It's getting too long."

"I will." She replies, twisting a bunch of her hair in her hand. She feels Altaïr grabbing the back of her neck gently, and she tenses, "please don't kill me."

"I sincerely hope not." He mutters, placing a thumb in the center of the back of her neck, slightly upwards into her hair. He presses gently into that area, "this one," he says, "If I punch you here, it will certainly knock you out." She tenses again, and he scoffs.

He places his right hand on her shoulder, feeling the muscle. It feels as if he is trying to massage her, but the movement is more like pinching. He presses gently above her shoulder blade, and she hisses, "That hurts."

"Of course. This is one of the weakest point in human body. Apparently if I pinch this area hard and sudden enough, I could paralyze your hand for a while." He chuckles, amused, "and if I stab this area, you won't be able to use your arm. If you do, it will be excruciating."

Altaïr places his hand flat against her back, thumb tracing the spine through the tunic. Ambra flinches as his hand slides downward to her lower back, and she tries to stifle a laughter. He seems to take notice.

"What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, "Ticklish."

She can almost hear him frowning, yet his hand keeps prodding against her back, as if trying to find the right muscle to press. She cannot hold the sensation and burst into a gleeful giggle. "Hush." He barks.

She covers her mouth with her hand, closing her eyes to hold the ticklish sensation. Her body is trembling with laughter, and she slips a giggle or two when his hand presses onto the muscle of her lower back.

"Calm down. I can't find the point if you keep laughing." He protests.

She shakes her head, "I can't help it -" she bursts into a loud laughter that is immediately muffled by her hands as Altaïr presses the same muscle again.

Altaïr sighs, removing his hand, "You're not supposed to be ticklish back here. This spot," he points with his finger, and she giggles, "is supposed to be painful when pressed or punched."

Ambra turns around to look at him, face still red from the laughter, "You were touching it, not pressing it. It's more like a massage than an attack, to be honest..."

"I was not trying to massage you," he immediately protests, gesturing her to turn around again. She complies, body already rocking with promise of laughter. "Stop that."

Ambra covers her mouth with her hands, breathing shakily. She feels Altaïr's fingers brushing over the same ticklish spot, his other hand is flipping the page, still determined to find the painful spot. He raises his touch. His fingers are pressing into her spine and he glides them down slowly, gauging her reaction. She tenses as the ticklish sensation is changed into another one that she is not familiar with.

"Wait," she breathes out, shakily. He stops.

"Did it hurt?" He asks.

"No - it feels unpleasant -" she turns to look at him.

"Hold on." He does it again, and she shudders. It feels like a chill running up her spine, and down below at the same time. She reaches back to grab his hand, and he stops. "Is it that painful?"

Ambra does not know what the sensation is. Bliss? Good? Not entirely. Unpleasant, yes. She feels a blush coming up her face from her neck as she turns around to Altaïr, "I don't know. It is not good, not bad either." She tries to explain.

Altaïr sighs, defeated, "Alright, your turn. Perhaps you'll find the spot quicker than me."  
He turns his back to her as she turns to face him, rolling his shoulders before sitting still.

She grabs the book, inspecting the illustrations briefly. Oh no wonder he got it wrong, that is not what he was supposed to do.

She holds the back of his neck, feeling the dip in the center there. He tenses at her touch before slowly relaxing. "This spot to knock the enemy out?" She asks.

"Yes." He replies, slightly grunting as she presses it.

Her hand glides to his shoulder, gently pinching the muscle above the shoulder blade, "This one?"

"No - to the left - yes."

She memorizes the location. Slightly above the shoulder blade, got it. Then her hand glides to his spine. Instead of using her palm, she uses her knuckles, making a twisting move as she presses into his back.

She gasps as Altaïr's hand suddenly grabs her wrist, stopping the movement entirely, "What are you doing?" He asks sharply, turning around to face her.

"I'm doing what the book said," she points to the page. "The illustration shows to use knuckles, twist and glide down the spine -"

Altaïr grabs the book, reading the page, then turning it. Whatever written on the other side has surprised him. He immediately closes the book, "I'm going to find another book tomorrow."

"Why? What does it say?" Ambra frowns. Is it really that bad? Lethal even?

"Doesn't matter what it says." He places the book aside, "Have you any trouble with the stub?"

The way he suddenly changes the subject makes Ambra realizes something about the book is not right. But she swallows her curiosity and answers, "No, thankfully."

"Good." Altaïr sighs heavily, "Lets sleep early tonight."

His change of manner makes her even more curious.

 

What were you thinking? Altaïr curses himself. He has locked himself in the chamber of the bathhouse, sitting on the bench alone, in the middle of the night. The cold air and tiles do not help calming him down - and it is caused by that book.

How can he forget there are forbidden chapters in that book? Abbas showed it to him when they used to train together, and they almost got caught for it. He had read the book many times just to learn which part he should stab, occasionally stealing glances at the forbidden chapters, to look at the illustrations and the written details about sex. Now remembering it, he feels stupid for borrowing the book in the first place.

To top it off, he just used one of the forbidden methods on Ambra.

He was not certain of what she felt - is it pleasure or pain? But he knew what it was for him. When she applied her hands across his backside and glided downwards, shivers ran under his skin. A delicious shiver that leads straight to his manhood. How the back connects with the front, he has no idea. Only now he finds himself unable to sleep.

Altaïr takes a deep breath. He has escaped to the bathhouse fearing that he might not be able to hold back when Ambra is lying next to him. He is hot and bothered, heart palpitating against his chest, as he tries to fight off the urge. He could have gone to the courtesans - no, you are not going to them - he mentally kicks himself, can already hear what they would say upon seeing him. 'Oh, but don't you have a servant that can help you with that, darling?' more trouble than solution.

He cannot take it anymore. How long has it been? A year? More? If he is correct, indeed, more than a year he has staved off the sexual need. He decides to take matters to his own hand.

He strips off of his clothes quickly, throwing them onto the bench. Even in the cold air, his manhood is erect, curving upwards with swollen tip. He walks to the shelf to take a towel, wrapping it over his shoulder, as he steps into the pool, sitting on the edge with his feet dangling in the water.

He wets his hands with the cold water before gripping his manhood, biting on the towel immediately at the contact. His fingers caress the tip, gathering the clear liquid that has formed there, and he starts to pump.

A slow pump at first, and he is grunting into the towel. He lies down onto the tiles, feeling more comfortable than facing the pool. He sighs as bliss shivering through his manhood.

He closes his eyes, trying to think about something, anything that can fuel his imagination. He tries thinking about Mirah, the courtesan whom he last bedded. In his mind, she is stripping off her clothes, lying on her bed, and he comes on top of her. Kissing, sucking, and pleasing himself with her body. She gasps as he enters her wetness, and quickly he moves without letting her adjust. He pumps harder and harder, relentless, putting one of her leg on his shoulder. He enjoys her moaning, an encouragement to keep on going. Her walls are fluttering. She is close. He is almost there too. Her hands are wrapped around his neck, bringing him in for a kiss. He peppers kisses to her throat, inhaling her sweat and the smell of her soap. She moans louder and spasms as she comes, and he groans upon the clenching that he feels on his manhood. Not yet satisfied. He keeps on pumping.

"Altaïr," he hears her calling. He opens his eyes, realizing the voice is not hers. He lifts himself from her, and surprised to see a pair of green eyes gazing into him longingly, gently, sultry. "Altaïr, please..." His name in her tongue rolls off perfectly.

"Ambra -" his words are swallowed as she pulls him to her, kissing him, then rolls him to his back. She pushes herself off of his chest, pulling from the kiss with a sigh, to sink further down his manhood. He hisses but immediately sits up, taking her swollen lips against his. A burning kiss, as she straddles him in seating position. He wraps his arms around her body, hands raking up her back and bottom, sighing into the kiss. Her lips are soft, and they taste the way he imagines her to taste - divine. Then her hips begin to move and she starts her own rhythm.

Altaïr growls as the sensation heightens. Her breasts pressing against his chest, the softness of her skin under his touch, the smell of her hair. He grabs her bottom, lifting her up and down as he thrusts upwards to match her rhythm, hitting that spot inside her that makes her moan higher, eyes closed, and mouth opens. A delicious view as he suckles her shoulder, dragging moan after moan from her greedily.

"Look at me," he says breathily.

Ambra has her hands clasping the sides of his face. He gazes into her emerald orbs. The look on her face alone makes him teetering on the edge. "Please... Altaïr..." She begs. Whatever it is that she wants, he will gladly give it to her.

She hugs him as her womanhood trembles. Her breath hot against his ear. The moaning - how loud and intoxicating. Then she gasps loudly, calling his name over and over again as her walls clench around his manhood. "Ambra..." He holds her tighter as he finds his release, groaning as the hot liquid shoots into her. She moans from the sudden heat. He encases her body in his arms, pulling her head slightly to look at that intoxicating expression, kissing her fervently, until both of them come back down from the bliss.

She disappears into the back of his mind, and he appears naked and alone in the bathhouse. Panting and spent from the wild imagination. His own liquid is pooling on his abdomen. He lets go of the towel that he bites, sighing in content. What was that...?

Quickly he cleans up his mess, and takes a bath. Scrubbing himself and the soiled towel with the soap many times until he is sure he cannot smell his own release. He puts on his clothes and heads back to the room.


	11. Chapter 11

The hidden blade training today is harder than before, paired with the sword training. Altaïr is moody, somehow gruffer that he usually is. Ambra is more than ready to lie down and sleep. Her arms are too sore to lift, pricking sensation at her muscle from every small movements. She sits down on the bench, stretching. Altaïr is talking with Rauf, both too engaged in a discussion, and Ambra has no intention to go after him. He is in his worst mood, and she is unsure if it is caused by her or not. She shakes her head, deciding to wait in the garden.

Lina is the first to greet her arrival at the garden. She throws her arms around her, bringing her in for a tight hug, before finally ushering her to sit with the others. They are basking under the warm sun, enjoying what warmth that is left before winter comes.

"Alma said you had a fever. Honey, what's wrong?" Lina asks as they lie down on the grass, beside the resting flowers who are fanning themselves and drinking out of brass cups.

"It was nothing. Look." Ambra shows her the stub, and she gasps, immediately grabbing her hand to take a closer look.

"You have been elevated?" Asma asks from where she sits.

"Oh my, that looks painful." Lina gently touches the stub, "no wonder you got a fever. I'd pass out for days."

"Look, she has the same thing as the assassins now!" Zainab points at Ambra's armbrace. Carefully, Ambra unsheathes it, and the courtesans are ecstatic.

Ambra sheaths her blade, and sits up, lowering her left hand to the ground to prevent accidental flicking. The courtesans are trading stories now, more like gossiping. Zainab talks about Ahmed, one of the instructors, who likes to come bringing gift to whoever courtesan he chooses. Whether it is a perfume, scented soap, fresh apricots - the man is charming and gentle. Then Lina talks about Malik, that apparently he is very good at drawing. She watched him in the library, deliberately posing for him, and he showed her a portrait of her. "I think he's in love with me." She sighs happily.

"More like you're in love with him." Talia replies.

Talia talks about the unpredictable weather and what may come. Acting as the mother of the courtesans, she has asked Al-Mu'alim for more winter clothes, and the Grand Mentor agrees. "He's a wonderful man, indeed. Doesn't always want to have sex, but he sure enjoys a good massage."

"And dancing. I can imagine him in his youth, handsome and charming." Asma swoons. "All men know how women like to be complimented, but Al-Mu'alim always knows how to treat us."

The topic takes a turn when Talia rolls onto her stomach, playing with a long grass, "I cannot say the same for his favorite assassin, though. But he did take care of you when you were ill, did he?"

"He did." Ambra replies, smiling upon remembering how patient Altaïr took care of her. "He brought food to the room, and bought herbs from the healer. It tasted really horrible, and he still keeps it 'just in case' one of us catch another fever."

"Would you look at that, she's blushing." Lina comments with a grin.

"I'm not - no -" but Ambra's face betrays her as she laughs the blush away.

"Then, you must do something for him. Repay his kindness. Men like to be appreciated." Talia winks, "it's time, don't you think?"

Ambra's blush deepens upon knowing what she means, "But - I don't think Im ready, I don't think he's ready - I mean our age gaps -"

Talia chuckles deeply, "Such naivety, darling. How old do you think they were when they start coming to play? Altaïr was fourteen when he first had Layla, and she is four years older than him." She gestures to the courtesan in soft red, whom winks from where she sits.

"He hasn't come here for over a year, actually." Mirah looks honestly concerned. "And he has not touched you. Is he even human..."

"I - I - I don't think it's wise for a servant to seduce the master." Ambra replies, swallowing her blush.

"No, but he might be in agony." Talia turns onto her back. Her breasts are visible through the thin fabric, "That reminds me of Ahab. A month ago he came frustrated and angry, something about his brethren or training, but we got to ease his burden."

"Oh, yes, that one man who likes to shout." Nisa chuckles. "We looked at him and went 'no, a simple sex will not do', so we gave him a full body massage."

"From a raging tiger to an adorable cat. He's rather cute too." Lina adds.

Ambra frowns, she has to admit, Altaïr's mood today is horrible. Is it because of his absence of sex? She blushes, cannot imagine him doing that. He is always so calm and composed. Maybe the weather is not that good? "To tell you the truth, Altaïr looks a bit tired today." She says quietly.

"What did I just say?" Talia chuckles.

"I was thinking of making it up to him. I haven't properly done my duty in the past days, so I thought maybe I'll clean up the room -"

"Nuh-uh, won't do, darling. Give him a massage." Talia cuts in.

"Yes, a massage. Those men are tired and spent from all the training. A gentler touch to ease the muscle will help them relax." Zainab adds.

Talia sits up and crawls closer to Ambra, "Here's what you have to do. You will sit behind him, give a neck and shoulders massage for the start, then slide to his arms - and use your strength. A man like him must have thick skin and thicker muscles. Then you will lie him down on his stomach, and massage his back. Press gently and strongly, stroke gentler, use aromatic oil or something -"

"Cedar oil works nicely." Lina cuts in, "it's a good prevention against pregnancy too. Smear it on him when he's hard, right before the action. That's what we always do."

Ambra blushes deeply upon the explicit explanation.

"My dear, go fetch a jar in my room." Talia orders, and Zainab immediately stands up, running to the corner of the garden.

"What if he doesn't like it?" Ambra voices her concern. She can already see it playing in her head. 'Altaïr, would you like a massage?' 'No', the end.

"Don't be forward, darling, be subtle. Tell him there's something you'd like to try." Talia replies. Zainab returns, slightly panting, handing a small wooden jar to Talia. "Thank you, my dear. Now," Talia hands it to Ambra, "if he refuses, you can always ask him to rub this on your back. Otherwise, continue."

Ambra feels the blush filling her cheeks and nose. She cannot imagine asking Altaïr for such thing. This is a bad idea... What if he becomes angrier at her?

Talia takes her hand. "Just give him a massage. He'll certainly love it, and it's easy. Just press gently like this," she suddenly grips on her lower arm, making her way up to her upper arm, where the soreness originates. "Feel the tension under his skin, and massage him like this. Oh darling, you could use a massage yourself." Talia chuckles, "perhaps he'll return the favor to you."

The gate is opened, and Altaïr is standing by it, arms crossed over his chest. Malik and Utsman following behind him, both look more relaxed and happy to be in the garden. Lina immediately stands up, sashays to Malik's direction. Talia turns to Altaïr, winking, before pecking Ambra on the cheek. "Good luck, darling." She whispers, wrapping her arms around Ambra to slide the wooden jar into her pouch. Then she rolls back onto her stomach.

Ambra stands up, taking a deep breath as she approaches the not-so-happy assassin who stands far away from the courtesans. He opens the gate, letting her go first, before he enters the castle, closing the gate behind him.

"I'm starting to think you have a relationship with Talia." He says as they are walking through the library.

"No more than friendship, Altaïr." Ambra replies, smiling. They exit the castle and head for the compound. "They said the weather hasnt been nice lately. Do you think so?"

They climb the stairs to the room, Altaïr is fishing his pouch for the key. "Winter in the fortress is harsh. It's colder up here than down there in the city." He opens the door.

Ambra opens the wardrobe as Altaïr is starting to remove his armbrace. She removes her armbrace as well, standing on her side as Altaïr stands beside her, placing his effects. She turns the belt to unhook it, and he scoffs.

"Still cannot unhook it properly, can you?" He unhooks his belt gracefully.

"Not yet." Ambra carefully places her belt, knowing the content in the pouch. She removes her holster and hood, untying her hair in the process. "I should cut this..." She mutters, gripping her hair that has reached her lower back.

Altaïr glances at her, "I agree. It has gotten too long."

"How much should I cut it?" She asks as he places his holster in the wardrobe. She looks up at Altaïr, noticing him frowning.

"Turn around." He says, and she complies. Altaïr grabs her hair at the nape of her neck, gathering the excessive strands with the other hand. "How are you not overheating with hair like this..." He mutters. He lowers his grip on her hair, reaching her upper back. "Is this alright?"

"Yes. As long as I can still tie it up." Ambra replies.

Altaïr unsheathes his dagger from the holster, and swiftly, cutting the hair just above his thumb. The sharpness of the blade and his movement make her feel nothing, only noticing that her hair is shorter than before. She turns around to find Altaïr still holding the piece of her hair, and now trying to find something in the wardrobe.

"Thank you." Ambra smoothens her hair. It feels different and lighter.

Altaïr finds what he is looking for, a leather strip. He ties up the hair in his hand, and storing it in the wardrobe. He glances at her briefly before taking clean clothes from the wardrobe, "You must be careful of where you cut your hair. Some people can use them for black magic." He explains.

"Oh." Ambra chuckles nervously. That can be problematic... "Do you store your hair too?"

Altaïr shakes his head, "No need. We all have similar hair color and short strands. No one can tell the difference."

The bath is much needed for Ambra. Her sore muscles feel much better, although the bruises are still visible. She returns to the room earlier than Altaïr, or does he return earlier than her? His effects are not in the wardrobe anymore, which only means he has taken his leave, either to the dining hall, or to the library, or to wherever he pleases.

Ambra waits a moment to make sure he will not return, then she starts cleaning the room. She uses an unused rag to wipe every surface, the table, the shelf, and the chairs. She takes a broom that is resting in the corner of the room, and starts sweeping the floor, stopping briefly to align the pillows and dust the carpet, before resuming sweeping the dust and grains of sand. In a few minutes, she has finished.

After lighting the oil lamp on the ceiling, she heads to the wardrobe. Very much nervous as she takes out the wooden jar that Talia has given her. She sighs, it will make her duty easier if Altaïr voices out his need for her help, but no. The assassin is either too independent to ask for help, or not grasping the concept of having a servant yet. She sets the jar down on the carpet.

A leather-bound book peeks from under Altaïr's heap of pillows. Ah, I should return this. She thinks, taking the book. Yet a wave of curiosity reminds her of last night - what did he read about?

She has to admit, when he did whatever he did to her back, it felt foreign. The shivers that run throughout her body felt good, not cold or anything. And she felt hot down below. She decides to swallow her nervousness and opens the book, trying to find the page that they read last night.

Here it is, she starts to read, but frowning at the words. 'This deep massage helps relaxing the body, giving a pleasure to both the spine and the genitalia' what...?

How did he not read this? The instruction is clear - press the palms against the back, massaging the muscle and everything - this is not life threatening. She looks at the drawing, maybe he didn't read the words? Only looking at the drawing? It is impossible for her to think he will deliberately use this technique on her

She flips the pages curiously. What else is in this book, she wonders. Blush creeps up her cheeks as she sees a glimpse of sexual illustration. This is allowed...right? Eventually she has to conduct the act, either with him - she inhales loudly - or with someone else. She decides to read the words.

The words are foreign to her, but the explanations are written and illustrated in detail. She never thinks sex to be this messy. And it is supposed to give pleasure? She frowns at the illustration of various sexual positions - my body can do that?

This is not good. She closes the book with shaky hands, opting to return it to its original place. She leans against the wall, breathing heavily, the hotness has returned to her lower abdomen, and she tries to distract herself. Oh my, she feels her cheeks have gotten warm. Did the fever return?

According to the book, man's anatomy is different to woman. The different positions of lovemaking as the book so calls it makes her wonder of their purpose. Is the point of sex to impregnate the woman? Then why pregnancy prevention such as cedar oil exists? She recalls the illustration, how the description explains the difference of male and female genitalia, and she buries her face in her palms. How am I going to face Altaïr now?

She has heard of intimacy before but not this much. All that she knows is that it is painful, that the women would scream or groan in pain, and that the result can be in pregnancy. Although the courtesans have shared their versions of intimacy, claiming that it brings pleasure to the partners involved in what way, Ambra wonders.

She almost forgets to have dinner, only realizing when her stomach rumbles loudly. She smacks herself in the face, focus, Ambra, focus. You're in a fortress full of men, don't lose your composure. Just calm down... Calm down - she regulates her breathing, then stands up to leave the room, locking the door behind her.

Altaïr is waiting in the dining hall, glancing up at her as she sits down across him. "Where have you been?" He asks, a bit of energy has returned to his face.

"Cleaning the room." She replies, starting to fill her plate. Her face still feels too hot for her. She fills her cup with water and drinks it rather quickly.

Altaïr has his eyes on her, and she feels her bottom half screaming. His sharp eyes are dominating, enough to make her blush harder. She decides to look down at the plate and starts eating.

"Did something happen while I was gone?" He asks, placing a hand under his chin.

She shakes her head, "No, Altaïr."

Before he can say anymore words, Malik sits down beside him, joined with Kadar by his side. "Good evening," he sounds rather happy, courtesy of Lina, she suspects. He looks at Ambra, "Has the fever gotten into you again? You're a bit red."

She shakes her head, "It's nothing, Malik," she smiles tightly, trying to relax despite the glare Altaïr gives from over his plate. "Kadar, how's your finger?"

Kadar has accidentally cut his finger on the blade. A novice mistake, as Malik bluntly said. He shows her his finger where the cut is sealed with a bandage, "I'll live." He chuckles. "Will you be joining us for tomorrow's training?"

Ambra glances at Altaïr, "I don't know, it's up to Altaïr."

The assassin chews on his food quietly, "You better join Malik for tomorrow. I have students to punish," he glares to the side, where Hamzah, Sofyan, and Tholeb are sitting down with Khalid's students.

"What did they do?" Malik asks.

"I had them running around in Masyaf. Tholeb slipped on nothing and knocked a civilian down. Hamzah broke a cart after using it for stepping. Sofyan almost did perfectly, but he ran into a guard, and now they all are in trouble." Altaïr scoffs, "maybe I should make them climb the canyon, let death be their punishment."

Malik laughs, "His reputation now lies on you, Ambra," he points at her with his oily finger from the food. His expression, however, turns softly, "What were you doing in the garden?"

Ambra swallows her food before answering, "Meeting the courtesans. They're welcoming, and they talk about many things."

"Such as?" Malik raises an eyebrow.

"The weather, their days, funny things that happened - like that." She replies. "I think Lina really likes you."

Malik has a grin on his face, and she likes it. He and Kadar have similar smile and intelligent gaze, almost making them look like twins. "Never mind about her. She is a wonderful companion to be had," Ambra can see Kadar holding back a blush, "you and Talia, though. I didn't expect her to warm up to you."

"She's really kind, honestly." She replies, finishes eating, and now filling her cup with water. Her gaze falls to Altaïr, whose eyes have not left her. He does look exhausted. "If it's alright, Malik, would you please excuse me and Altaïr? I have something to ask him." She finishes the drink in one gulp.

Altaïr raises an eyebrow, surprised at her initiative, "About what?"

Ambra hesitates, "I...uhm...rather not talk here. If it's alright with you."

Altaïr stands up from the table, sighing, "Very well. I'll see you tomorrow, Malik."

Ambra follows Altaïr leaving the dining hall. The taller assassin walks beside her to the compound.

"I thought Ive made it clear not to lie." He mutters.

"No offense, but you look like you need a lie to get you out of there." She replies, rather timidly. "Did he notice..."

"Do not worry about him. He doesn't even notice his brother has been sleeping with the same courtesan."

Ambra's eyes widen, but she tries to conceal her surprise, "Oh?"

"It's all in your face. You're a terrible liar, Ambra." He shakes his head in disbelief.

Once they have reached the room, and sit down on the carpet, Altaïr suddenly pauses. "I forgot to borrow another book."

"I can borrow it tomorrow," Ambra beams up, trying to offer a help.

"We need it for tonights discussion." He replies, ready to stand up. But Ambra holds onto the sleeve of his tunic, out of impulse, more than anything. It catches him off guard. "What are you doing?"

"I -" she releases her grip on him, as if he just scalds her hands. He returns to sit down, golden orbs observing her intently.

"If you have something on your mind, tell me. You're acting weird, and I don't like to guess." He says. What happened?

She inhales deeply, instinctively lowers her eyes, a bad decision, actually, as she glances at his crotch. The words and illustration that she read in the book come back to her immediately, and she groans rather loudly.

"Would you please turn around?" She finally says.

Altaïr frowns, "What?"

"Please?" She repeats. "I... There's something I'd like to try."

He looks at her skeptically, "Ambra, what is it?"

"Please, Altaïr? Please turn around. I won't do anything weird, I promise." She tries to assure him with her gaze, telling him that she means no harm - what harm can come from her anyway? Unsure, Altaïr turns in his seat.

Alright, this should be easy, right? He has turned around, all I have to do is just grasp his shoulders and massage him - she swallows. She uses her knees to prop herself up, rubbing her hands together to warm them up. Then, albeit shakily, she places her hands on his shoulders.

Altaïr tenses immediately, but she continues. She starts applying pressure, using measured strength, to massage him. His muscles are taut and strained, and she takes her time with his shoulders.

A deep chuckle rumbles through Altaïr's body, "You're massaging me?"

Ambra stutters, "Y-yes...?"

He chuckles again, louder this time. "Why didn't you just ask?"

She laughs nervously, "I didn't think it'd be appropriate." She leans to one side, surprised to see a smile forming on Altaïr's lips. She applauds herself in her mind.

She continues massaging his shoulders until the muscles are tender, and his groaning are becoming less frequent. Then she moves to his neck, where she massages the sides and the nape gently, finding the muscles there more strained. He grunts deeply, "I didn't know you can do this." He mutters, sighing contently as she kneads the right spot.

"I didn't either. I'm as surprised as you." She replies.

When the neck is done, she moves to his right arm. Talia was right, the muscles there are hard and very difficult to massage. Nevertheless, Altaïr lets out satisfied grunts now and then, eyes closing. A satisfying response that makes Ambra grins widely.

His left arm is more difficult to work with. "When was the last time you had a massage?" She asks, kneading the muscles with her palms.

"Hmm... I forgot." He replies, opening his eyes to look at her with hazy stare. "Who put you up to this? The courtesans?"

Ambra smiles, "I just want to repay your kindness. You've taken care of me when I was ill, that isn't something that master does for a servant." She adds pressure against the stubborn muscle.

"I'm responsible for you. Who else is going to take care of you?" He replies.

Ambra gives his upper arm a few kneading before speaking, "Now I need to massage your back." She looks at him, "would you mind removing your tunic and lie down?"

"Not at all." Altaïr replies.

She helps removing his sash and setting it aside. Then she helps him removing the outer tunic. His eyes are looking at her, as if still observing. "What?" She asks shyly, the blush returns as she tugs on the inner tunic.

She swears there is a glint in those golden orbs of his. "Nothing," he replies, removing his inner tunic.

Oh I should have braced myself first - Ambra feels the hotness returns to her lower abdomen, as she realizes he is sitting bareback in front of her. His hair is ruffled, the brown strands are calling her to smooth them out. And his chest - oh Allah have mercy on me - is taut, as well as his abdomen. There are stretch marks on his shoulders and upper arms, the color is dark, and presumably he has had it for a long time. The veins in his arms pop out, making her wonder if she will have the same condition.

He lies down on his stomach, propping his head on one of the big pillows. His back is as impressive as the front, adorns with muscle that accentuates the curve of his spine. Ambra reaches beside him to retrieve the wooden jar, only now inhaling a strong smell from him. It is almost intoxicating. Is it his sweat? His smell reminds her of earth and metal, and she finds it hard to stop smelling him.

"What is that?" Altaïr glances behind his shoulder to look at the wooden jar in her hand.

"Oil, to help with the massage." She says, unsure. She removes the lid, and immediately a wooden smell fills her nose. It has a hint of juniper and mint, but mostly the smell of fresh pine trees.

Altaïr sniffs the air, "Cedar oil?"

Ambra dips her fingers in the substance, then smears it on his back, "Yes," she replies. His skin is warm to touch, and she blushes deeply upon realizing the skin on skin contact. Her fingers glide easily against his skin.

Altaïr lets out a deep grunt as she massages his shoulder blades. "Where did you get that?" His voice is mixed with a sigh. She blushes at the sound, never has she heard him speaks like that.

"Uhm..." She tries to avoid his question. It works long enough until he turns to look at her from over his shoulder, eyes hooded, and sweat has formed on his forehead. "Never mind where I get it, it helps with the massage, doesn't it?" She offers a smile, then glides her hands downwards to the center of his back. He hisses before turning back to face the pillow.

"The courtesans gave it to you, did they?" He guesses correctly. "Where else would you get it? I'd be surprised if someone deliberately gave it to you."

Ambra does not say a thing, instead kneading the left side of his back, carefully massaging from the middle back to the lower. She repeats it many times before massaging the other side. She can feel the restrain in his body whenever she applies pressure. Slowly, the muscles she is working with have started to relax, and one happy assassin is sighing contently into the pillow.

She glides her hands to his lower back, where there is a dip in the center. Again, she smells the earthen and metal smell from him, this time stronger. She tries to shrug it off as she kneads on his back, just over his pants. Her gaze drops lower to his bottom, and she inhales sharply. Quickly finishing the task before the hotness can bother her further.

"Wait there," she says, as she stands up to fetch a cloth from the wardrobe. She dips half of it in the clay jug. She returns to Altaïr's side, rubbing the wet side of the cloth over his back to remove the oil, then dry him with the dry side. "You're done."

Altaïr flips onto his back, muscles rippling with the motion, sighing contently, "I didn't know I needed that. Thank you, Ambra."

"You're very welcome," she replies with a smile. She places everything back in place, the wooden jar into the wardrobe, the cloth is placed on the shelf for it is dirty, then she cleans her hands. Rolling up her sleeves, she rubs the oil that has dripped there, before returning to the carpet. Her blush deepens upon seeing Altaïr still has not put on his tunic. "Altaïr," she grabs his tunic from the floor, but whatever she is about to say has died down as she hears his calm breathing.

She sighs, partly grateful, partly in annoyance, because she can see his upper body clearly, and her body decides to enjoy the view. She folds his tunics and sash, placing them onto the table, before setting down on her side.

Her breathing has gotten labored all of the sudden, as she sees his chest rising and lowering slowly. Thin body hair adorns his chest. One of his hands is over his stomach, and she cannot stop herself from gazing lower, where trails of dark hair leads down below. The front of his pants covers a bulge between his legs. Suddenly her mind is starting to combine the illustrations from the book with him. She forcefully looks up at his face to distract herself.

He looks peaceful - much better than his usual sleeping expression. His stubble grows around the scar on his lips. His forehead is forever adorned with frown lines, starting from his thick eyebrows. She sighs, taking in his feature. She finds his sharp eagle eyes to be wonderful, beautiful even, especially when the sun lights them up. The tip of his nose is glistening with sweat. The discoloration between the tanned face with the less tanned torso shows which part the sun kisses the most.

She inhales deeply, I should just sleep, she thinks. Closing her eyes, she mutters a sleeping prayer. Despite the rapid beating heart, and the mind that keeps feeding her imagination with curiosity, she stills herself beside Altaïr. Soon joining him in a peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank Francisco Randez for being so impossibly beautiful and gorgeous, and i run out of praise to give. But as queen Lana Del Rey often said in her songs, "Daddy."


	12. Chapter 12

Months have passed since Ambra receives her hidden blade, but yet for her to fully embrace it. Altaïr watches her stabbing the dummy filled straw, how rigid her posture is. He'd correct her if he can, but right now, he is looking through Al-Mu'alim's window in the castle, past the man himself.

"I have new assassination targets," he informs, rolling out a scroll on his desk. "Four Templars, to be exact. One in Damascus, two in Aleppo, and the other one in Acre." He hands Altaïr four scrolls detailing the targets. "You may take these on your own or bring another assassin with you, but I expect you to hurry. There is a news that they are going to gather in Jerusalem in two weeks time."

Altaïr receives the scrolls, "If I may, Master, I'd like to assign these to my students."

Al-Mu'alim nods, "Very well. Bring them in after training. You are dismissed."

Altaïr walks down the stairs, clutching onto the scrolls in one arm. He recalls the first killing missions he gave to his students, Hamzah, Sofyan, and Tholeb, and three of them were successful, although a bit sloppy. More times he assigns them with scouting missions that usually turn out to be killing missions. The furthest they usually go is Damascus, but after seeing how determined they are to prove themselves, he is considering to give them solo missions.

He approaches his students, all who are practicing tackling and avoiding tackle. Hamzah is the first to notice him, earning himself a tackle from Tholeb as he is distracted from the training. He manages to catch himself before hitting the ground, only staggering forward. Altaïr smirks.

"I have good news for you," he says, and immediately their attention turns to the scrolls he is carrying. "Despite your clumsiness and numerous mistakes, you are still qualified to take killing missions. So, here," he hands the scrolls to Sofyan, "four targets for the three of you. Plan on your own and try not to get killed."

Tholeb snatches a scroll from Sofyan, opening it to read, "Are you not coming?" He asks, lowering the scroll.

"I'm tempted - but no. It's time for you to receive heavier missions, after all, this is the last term you will be practicing with me." Altaïr replies. There are ten ranks in the Brotherhood, but instructors are only assigned to teach the recruits until the sixth rank. After that, if the student proves to be skillful, they can be appointed to teach. Although, right now, it is too early to judge which one of the three of them is qualified enough to be called his successor.

Hamzah grins, "We won't disappoint you, Altaïr." How reassuring...

"Return to your training for now. Al-Mu'alim wants to see you afterwards." Altaïr replies. He leaves the three too-eager-and-too-excited assassins who are now discussing with each other, and heads to the one almost hopeless student near the dummy.

Ambra stops her action when she sees him coming, "Altaïr," she greets, huffing.

"Carry on," he replies. "You need to treat the blade as an extension of your arm, not a foreign object that you hold."

"I'm trying," she huffs, stabbing the dummy again.

"You're supposed to be killing the dummy, not hitting it." Altaïr stands in front of another dummy. With no hesitation, he lunges to stab it, then quickly retreats. He repeats it three more times. "Quick, don't hesitate."

He watches her taking a step backwards, then lunges at the dummy, doing exactly what he just demonstrated. But she staggers when she retreats.

"Push against the dummy, don't pull yourself backwards." He demonstrates again.

Ambra follows, this time no staggering, and she lights up a bit at the improvement.

"That's better. Keep doing that a few more times, then we'll practice your sword." He unsheathes his sword, deciding to practice on his own beside her. Time does move fast - he has not realized that he has not find new skills to learn - and no improvement yet. He wonders if he can work more on his footwork, or in his hand-to-hand combat, or his accuracy with crossbow and throwing knives.

A few minutes later, he turns to Ambra, finding her panting and tired from attacking the dummy. Her brows furrowing, face glistened with sweat, as she lunges at the dummy's chest - more like colliding against it. The dummy hits the wall behind.

"Stop." He orders, and she stops herself from lunging forward. She turns to face him, face red and heaving. "That is one way to do it, if your target is a big muscular man. But if he's a skinny one, you'll fall to the ground with him." He frowns, noticing stray strands of hair peeking from under her hood. "Your hair is undone."

She touches her hair, sighing, "Thank you." She mutters, lowering her hood. But she stops before untying her hair, as if remembering something. She puts on her hood again, the strands sticking out noticeably.

"What's wrong?" He asks, as she heads to a nearby bench to sit down. He follows her.

"I'm afraid I'll accidentally stab myself in the head," she replies, removing the armbrace. She places it on her lap. Then she lowers her hood again, taking the strip of cloth, and proceeds to tie her hair into a ponytail. "Perhaps I should've shaved my hair." She mutters, pulling her hood back up.

"Perhaps," Altaïr sits down beside her. He agrees with her having short hair, it will make it easier to conceal under the hood, and prevents overheating in the summer. But on the other hand, he disagrees. "But it doesn't mean you should. I think long hair suits you."

She chuckles, a smile is etched on her face. "You think so? However messy my hair can be, and however many strands that stuck on the carpet?"

"Of course. I'd be surprised if you have short hair like I do. You'll look like a man, and it's not something to wake up to every day." He replies honestly. "Perhaps you should ask the courtesans of what they think."

She turns to him, frowning, "You...don't mind?"

He smiles, "Their last advice works really well, doesn't it?"

She laughs, clearly knowing what he refers to. The massage she once gave felt good that he has asked for more every several weeks. Although the choice of the oil - cedar - is frowned upon by him. Knowing its other use for sexual purpose, it is not a good scent to be had in the morning. He does not need the entire fortress thinking he has been engaged in sexual interaction with Ambra all night. "I executed that advice poorly, and you fell asleep immediately."

"Which means it works." He says. "You may ask them what to do with your hair after training."

After the short rest, Altaïr resumes her sword training from Malik's last session. When she shows the stance, he notices she has taken on Malik's stance - fluid-like, open, baring the front. Whereas his stance is closed and strong. He lets her use her stance, and comes the lessons. Malik has taught her well during his absence, he has to admit. She already learns how to strike and defend, albeit basic movement and still a bit wobbly. He can work on this.

He strikes first, and she defends. He uses less force at first, slower, until she adjusts herself with the movements. Gradually, he increases the force and speed, noticing her defense faltering. "Keep it up." He grunts, striking from the side. She deflects quickly, and he begins to strike from above. She quickly dodges, and his sword slices through the air. "Did Malik teach you that?" He asks, stopping the attack.

"He said to avoid what I can't deflect," she huffs.

"A wise word." He comments.

They continue the practice until lunch, when they stop for a while. In the dining hall, Altaïr sees Tholeb, Sofyan, and Hamzah looking livelier and ecstatic than usual, but pretending that nothing happens at all. It is an honor to be tasked with a killing mission, especially if Templars are the target. He sits beside his students, Ambra is sitting across him.

"So what is your plan?" Altaïr asks Tholeb who is beside him.

The student is too eager to spill, face lights up and smiling, "We have divided the targets. I'll be taking the one in Acre and Damascus, Hamzah and Sofyan will go to Aleppo."

"Good. For the sake of the creed, try not to make a fool of yourselves." Altaïr says.

Ambra looks at Hamzah, "You're leaving?"

"Yes, missions." Hamzah replies, "Oh, Sofyan, we should bring extra kaftan. It must have started snowing there."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sofyan replies, chewing on his food.

"You better take care of the fortress while we're away, yes, Ambra?" Tholeb grins, earning a laughter from Ambra. "We might bring gifts for you. Anything on your mind?"

Altaïr glances at Ambra, whom shakes her head, "Nothing. Just make sure all of you return safely."

The conversation then takes a turn to talk about the change in temperature, as winter has arrived. He listens to his students' banter, casually glancing at Ambra, noticing her relaxing, grinning, and occasionally laughing. A drastic change in merely a year.

After the break, the training resumes. Altaïr instructs Ambra to hold the sword with both hands. They use the same method; attack and defense. He attacks first, and she deflects strongly, a slight improvement.

"You're using a one-handed sword, so mind the strength you apply." He reminds her. She nods, preparing herself for the next attack.

He tries attacking her from all front sides, slowly at first. Her defense is good enough, spare for the slight wobble on the tip of her sword whenever she deflects. He watches her expression. The brows are furrowing, eyes determined and a bit hostile, lips pursed. He adds speed and force to his attack, she grunts while deflecting each of it.

By the time they are done, the cold wind starts to blow. The gray sky in the horizon is coming closer, a reminder that snow may come tonight. Altaïr sighs. Training in winter can be a challenge. From the slippery ground, the frigid temperature, the coldness of the weapons, and the risk of catching a cold or fever. Many times storm comes, engulfing Masyaf with thick snow for days. To top it off, the water in the bathhouse is going to be freezing cold.

He watches as his students make their way to the castle. Hamzah, Tholeb, and Sofyan to meet Al-Mualim, while Ambra to meet the courtesans. He decides to join her. The scholars have taken notice of the change in the air, and they have started to save the scrolls and the books from the dampness winter may carry. They move some books to the back of the library, where it is warmer and well-lit. Altaïr moves around them to head to the garden, or at least, to see what Ambra is up to today.

He does not hate the courtesans - they are just doing their job. But he dislikes how persuasive they can be, and how they like to gossip about each men they have bedded with. He finds them as a waste of time too, especially when they have succeeded in seducing a man to spend the night. Many of his brethren have returned to the training feeling spent and tired than energetic and lively.

He looks out the garden from the gate. The courtesans are lying down on the grass, well, most of them. Some of them are on the bench, talking with some assassins, leaning against them. The colder air has made them cling to a source of body heat. His eyes scan the garden for Ambra, finally finding her on the grass. Asma is brushing her hair.

When Altaïr comes into the garden, the courtesans on the grass look up at him, giggle, and then share whispers with each other. Ambra turns to look at him, blushing upon a comment whispered in her ear. For once, he has found her not accompanied by Talia. The said courtesan is warming up in the corner, reading a book.

"Are you done?" Altaïr asks Ambra.

Asma speaks up, "We were just about to start. Why, come join us, honey. The more the merrier."

Altaïr hesitates, but sits down nonetheless, but further from the flock of the courtesans. He watches Asma starting to make a braid out of Ambra's hair. Lina beside her, lying on her stomach, complaining, "Not a braid, silly. You're going to ruin her hair."

"Lina, your hair is in braid." Asma retorts.

Lina flicks her braid to the side, "True, but her hair looks better undone."

"What do you think, honey? Braided or undone?" Nisa turns to Altaïr, body gesture suggesting she'd like to sit beside him.

Altaïr frowns, "Why does it matter?"

Asma stops braiding, glancing at Altaïr, "It's clear he favors undone hair, honey."

"I never said I do," Altaïr mutters. "Whatever it is, do it quickly. It's going to snow soon."

Lina giggles and rolls onto her back, giving him a full view of her breasts behind the transparent fabric, "Someone's eager for body warmth." She nudges Ambra's arm, making her blush deeper.

Altaïr's words are proven to be true. Not long after that, drops of snow start to fall to the garden. Asma quickly finishes braiding the hair, tying up the end with a strip of cloth. "Would you look at that? We'll be having a lot of companies tonight, girls." She says, patting Ambra on the shoulder.

"There, she is ready for you." Nisa winks playfully at Altaïr, as Ambra mutters 'thank you' and walks to him. He stands up from the grass, heading to the gate without saying anything to the courtesans. Ambra follows behind him.

"It's not a practical hairdo," he mutters as they walk through the scholars, who are now frantically moving the books and scrolls. "Someone can snatch your braid easily, and you can't do anything other than cutting it off."

She looks at him, a bit skeptical, "Even under the hood?"

"Yes. I thought the courtesans give good advice, but now I think only one or two are actually the good ones." He says as they are heading to the tower.

They remove their effects, placing them in the wardrobe. Altaïr watches her trying to remove the belt from the front, an action that never ceases to amuse him. He removes his holster and hood, as well as the outer tunic. He sees her already removing her hood. The braid hangs behind her, and curiously, he grabs it, pulling it backwards.

Ambra lets out a gasp as she staggers backwards, "Altaïr?!" She panics, both hands holding onto the base of the braid.

"I told you it's not a practical hairdo." He scoffs, twisting the braid in his hand, and she yelps. "Now what are you going to do in this situation?"

"Is this a training?" She asks, hissing.

"Yes. Now how are you going to escape this? A Templar has gotten hold on your hair, and you have nothing to attack him with." He describes the situation.

She grunts, pulling against his hold, "Shouldn't I get a hint?"

"No. I'm going to count to fifty. If you haven't found the solution by then, I'll make the first move." He replies, and starts to count.

It is amazing how determined she is to remove herself from his grip. She tries pinching his arm and hand, then tries to reach his torso, but her hands are too short to reach him. She tries kicking him, and he deflects her easily, still counting. Her attacks on his hand are becoming more frantic as the count reaches fifty.

He yanks her by the hair to his direction, then wraps his other hand around her neck, squeezing once. The close proximity causes him to inhale her sweat - earthen and straw - and he mutters, "You're dead." Then he removes her.

She immediately staggers away from him, clutching her hair in her hands, "That actually hurts." She frowns, slightly pouting.

"Your attacks were in the right place, but not entirely correct. Here -" she instinctively steps away from him, and he chuckles. "I'll tell you how -"

"No, thank you," she dodges backwards, still clutching onto her hair.

Altaïr lunges to catch her, and she quickly evades under his arms. "You're going to hurt yourself," he says, shaking his head.

"So far I haven't -" she narrowly dodges his hands, back colliding against the table.

He uses the opportunity to grab her by the arm, an effort that is almost successful, has she not dodges to the side. He sighs, "Ambra, wait -" he sees her already making a stance in front of the wardrobe. "You're honestly going to get hurt." She grins, and he chuckles, amused. "I've warned you."

He does not hold back as he lunges at her, arms wide to grasp her if she dares to dodge. She lowers herself and ducks under his left arm, almost running into the table again. But he gives no time for her to stop dodging, as he turns on his heels, trying to corner her to one side. She moves behind the table, now they are circling around it.

She moves to one side, but he is faster. He grabs her by the collar of her tunic, and drags her over the table. She yelps, hands reaching out to him, and suddenly, she snakes them to his armpit. He immediately lets her go - what the - how? But she is free now, and jumping off the table.

"You decided to tickle the Templar?" He huffs, rolling his sleeves.

"Unfortunately, Im the servant of the said Templar, and it would be unwise to harm my master -" she ducks under the table as Altaïr lunges, trying to grab her over the table again. He squats down, and she immediately escapes from the table legs. He manages to get a hold of her ankle, but she stubbornly tries to kick with the other one. Another improvement, he smiles, as he catches her other leg. He pulls her to him, flipping her to her back. He keeps his arms around her head, encasing her under him.

He grins down at her, huffing and chuckling at the same time. Her breathing is labored from their small chase. "Now-"

He does not get to speak the rest of his words, as she suddenly wraps her legs around his waist, and rolls over to the side. He lands with a thud on the stone floor, a bit taken aback at her move. But she has raised herself from on top of him. A challenge he scoffs, hands immediately grabbing the back of her knees. She yelps as she falls onto him.

Altaïr catches her fall with the front of his body, then rolls the position, until she is under him again. Good move, Ambra. He praises her genuinely, keeping her in place by holding both of her hands down. She moves her feet between them, pressing her knees to his chest, an effort that earns an honest laughter from him.

"You're too heavy." She grunts, trying to press his weight off of her with her knees.

"You're not strong enough-" her knees slip to his side, sending him knocking the breath out of her as he falls on top of her. He manages to stop himself from head butting her, but the sudden close proximity catches him off guard.

Her emerald eyes are closed as she is laughing at her own failed attempt in escaping his grip. But his golden ones are not blinking. She is warm, or is it him? He can feel her breath on the tip of his nose, and he is certain she can feel his on hers. He pauses, feeling the jump in his chest at her expression.

He feels her hands clenching onto his own. Soft palms meeting his calloused ones. Her laughter slowly dies down to a chuckle and he cannot help but smile at her. For a moment, he does not register his own action, as he releases one hand and brings his own to move a strand of stray hair from her face. Her cheeks are tinted red from the small gesture.

"Now would you lend me your hair?" he mutters over her. Voice deeper than his usual tone.

She chuckles shyly, hand capturing his own that is tucking her stray hairs to the back of her ear. "Alright."

Altaïr is tempted to lean forward but no. He chases the impulse away. He stands up, pulling her up from the floor, then turns her around. "If anyone grab you by the hair like this," he holds the braid tightly, not nearing the base, "you hold onto the base of your hair," he gestures for her hand, and he places her grip to the base of her braid, "and then turn around to me."

She grunts, trying to turn to him. She manages, but now glaring at him, "This hurts," she says.

"Now, with your other hand, try grabbing my little finger and bends it backwards." He continues. Her other hand traces his knuckles to find the little finger. When she finds it, she bends it backwards as he has instructed, and he immediately lets go.

She lunges backwards, panting, "Finally - thank you."

He smirks at her, "Keep that in mind should it happen again. He effectively keeps a distance from her, wondering whether his action is too much or it is nothing at all. What are you thinking, he glances at her, how she shrugs the action earlier as if it was nothing. She does not even know how intimate it was...

 


	13. Chapter 13

The snow falls heavily upon Masyaf. Altaïr notices it in the morning. Wind rattles against the window, and when he opens it, cold air blows into the room. The fire of the oil lamp is extinguished. He looks out to see what nature has brought upon the city.

White. Everywhere he looks is thick white snow covering every inch of the surface. He squints to look around the darkness, even the torches do not help so much. His neighbors do the same as him, looking out of their windows.

"What a storm!" Ahmed comments from the room on his right. "At this rate, we might have to cease the training!"

But Altaïr's concern is elsewhere. What about his students? They are supposed to leave for missions today - and in this storm, they would endanger themselves.

A shuffle is heard behind him. Ambra is peeking from the gap between him and the window, "What's going on?"

Altaïr closes the window forcefully, "Snow storm. Go get ready. I have to meet your brethren."

As he exits his room, he notices his neighbors are in the hallway. Malik, whose room is in the far end of the hall, is talking to Basir. Altaïr walks past the others, past Abbas' worried expression. His gaze meets him, but none exchanges a word. He walks down the stairs hastily.

The students' rooms are bigger and housed up to six students per room. Hamzah is in the same room as Tholeb, but Sofyan is in another room. Altaïr walks to Hamzah's room first.

He knocks on the wooden door, and immediately it is opened from the inside. Rahman's student, Haras, opens it. "Altaïr -"

"Where are Hamzah and Tholeb?" Altaïr asks, cutting his words off. Haras opens the door wider, giving him chance to look into the room, where Hamzah and Tholeb are putting on their belts. Both of them look at Altaïr, surprised.

"Altaïr - can we help you?" Tholeb pauses his movement.

Altaïr steps into the room. The smell of spices incense fills the room, the said object is sitting on the table in the corner. His eyes scan the room quickly, noticing most of the occupants are still in their cots, sitting up with ruffled hair and sleepy eyes. He looks at two of his students, "It's storming. I might have to call you off from the missions."

Hamzah's jaw drops, immediately protesting, "It's nothing, Altaïr! We can still carry on the missions - besides, it's just snow!"

Another knock on the door and it is opened from outside. Sofyan's delighted face appears, expression turns into worry upon seeing Altaïr in the room. "Altaïr?" He walks inside, closing the door behind him strongly as the wind threatens to blow it open.

Altaïr notices he is ready as well. A satchel is hanging over his shoulder, and he has drabbed himself in kaftan. A shawl hangs around his neck.

"You need not worry for us. We can manage this." Tholeb says, calmer than Hamzah. He hoists his satchel onto his shoulder, "If it's any consolation, we would send a bird from the bureau." He adds with a grin, and Hamzah elbows him on the rib.

Altaïr sighs. If there is only one target, he'd go on his own. But there are four, and his students are enthusiastic to accept the missions - it is an honorable path for them, taking it away will crush them. He relents, "Very well. You may leave."

Hamzah is the most excited one, "Thank you!"

The three students bid farewell to their roommates, each muttering prayers for their brethren. Altaïr watches them descending the staircase, each with a smile on their faces, exchanging playful banters despite the harsh and cold wind. He decides to return to his room.

Ambra has just finished putting on her effects when he returns. She turns to him, "Welcome back." She greets while tightening her armbrace.

"Your brethren have taken their leave." He informs her. "Pray for their safety. I'm afraid the weather will halt their journey."

The names of his students do not escape his prayer. He hopes they will reach their respective bureaus safely, prays that no harm comes to them, and that they can finish the missions successfully. When he ends his prayer, he notices Ambra is sitting down on the carpet, muttering a prayer on her own. He stands up and look around the room.

On the bottom shelf, a small brazier is located, alongside a rusted pot that he never uses but never throws away either. Whoever occupied this room previously clearly enjoyed cooking inside. He brings out the brazier, placing it in the corner, the right side of the door where it is empty. He notices his lack of firewood, and he is tempted to burn some unused rags.

Ambra has finished her prayer, standing up to see what he is doing. "May I help you?" She offers.

"Yes, we need firewood." Altaïr opens the wardrobe, preparing to put on his effects. He has left abruptly earlier, did not even bother to put on his outer tunic or hood. He slips on the outer tunic, surprised to find Ambra already snaking a hand around his torso to help putting on his sash. He puts on his hood quickly, grabbing his belt next, and she is already prepared with his holster. He takes it from her hand, and she grabs his armbraces. "Put a kaftan on yourself," he motions to the kaftan on the carpet, as he takes the armbraces from her hand. He wears the right one first, pulling onto the leather strap with his teeth. The left one requires no time to put on.

Ambra hands him his kaftan, "What would you wear?"

"I'm fine. You should put it on. The wind is really harsh out there." He replies, closing the wardrobe. He sees her not yet putting it on, "what's wrong?"

She frowns at him, "I don't mean to be ungrateful, Altaïr, but I could trip in this." She drapes the kaftan over her shoulders, and he notices the ends are pooling around her feet. He chuckles, almost forgetting their height difference. She does not look amused as she folds the kaftan neatly.

"You're still growing." He says as she places the kaftan on the table. He slides on his boots, tightening the leather against his calves to ensure flakes of snow will not slide through the gap. She is doing the same, sliding on her boots.

"I hope so. Rayan is taller than me, and he's only thirteen." She replies.

They exit the room, and a gust of cold wind greets harshly from the staircase, threatening to blow their hoods off. Simultaneously, they press their hoods against their heads. Altaïr pulls on the door to close it, and locks it. He sees Ambra's futile attempt to hold onto the hood is hopeless, and she lets the wind have its way with it. They walk downstairs carefully, as the western balcony has been decorated with layers of snow.

"Do you think I can still grow taller?" She asks from behind him.

Altaïr frowns. Honestly, he has given up on hoping her height gain. He remembers reaching his final height when he was sixteen, the accumulations of training helped, but mostly he inherited his father's height. "Why do you want to grow taller?" He returns the question.

"So I can get a better reach?" Her answer is not entirely honest. He snickers at it, and she groans quietly, "so I won't be seen as a child."

"That is what a child would say." He comments. The snow on the ground outside is thicker, must be reaching almost up to his knees. He sees the training field from here, how empty it is, spared for some lit braziers and torches that almost died out in the snow. Ambra is huffing behind him.

"I'm not even as tall as any of the courtesans." She mutters.

"What matters is your skill. Never mind about your height." He leads her to the storage room beside the bathhouse.

The storage room keeps a large stack of firewood in the back, beside the blankets and rolls of fabrics. He throws open the fur that is draped over the firewood.

Ambra is taking sight of the storage room, and he calls her, "Open your hands and steady your arms." He places the logs one by one in her arms, stacking them up to her chin. "Do you get them?"

"Yes," she replies, slightly strained. He hurriedly gathers the logs into his arms, then kicks the fur to drape it over the firewood again to keep it from moisture. He lets Ambra lead the way back to the room.

He lets Ambra walks first, fearing she might tumble down the stairs without him noticing, and the thought amuses him. From the back, she clearly looks like a child, not even reaching up to his chin. No wonder the brethren easily warm up to her, she does not look intimidating at all.

Once reaching the third floor, Altaïr holds the logs in one arm, leaning against the wall, as he fishes his pouch for the key. The door is blown wide open by the wind. Ambra steps first into the room, dropping the pile in the corner by the brazier. After Altaïr has stepped in, she closes the door behind him, locking it. He places the stack on top of Ambra's stack, and starts making a fire.

The fire from the brazier gives enough heat into the room. He sighs, crouching beside it to warm his palms. He turns to motion Ambra to warm herself up, but she is standing by the door, shaking off the cold with excessive movement to keep herself warm.

"There won't be any training today." He tells her, standing up to remove his hood and holster. He places them on the table, then he removes his armbraces. "We might have to make our way to the dining hall, though, but without our weapons. Cold is not good for metal."

She sighs, glancing at the shelf, "There is still some dates left."

"Dried dates won't be enough." He replies, removing the sword and the throwing knives from his belt. Ambra unbuckles her sword and armbrace as well. "I'll ask the workers for some salted meat. I'm sure they keep some in the kitchen."

After making sure the brazier is safely placed, they head out into the storm again. This time not alone. Some familiar faces emerge from their rooms, heading downstairs in the same hope; to satiate their hunger. They are all walking with heads bowed down, crossing the training field where the wind is bolder, and into the warmth of the dining hall.

Altaïr sits down in a nearby table, and Ambra quickly sits beside him. The workers must have noticed the change in the weather since yesterday, because today's meal is chicken stew. Altaïr fills up his bowl, and starts to eat.  
He notices a figure sits down in front of him, and he glances from his bowl. Khalid glances back at him, smiling a bit, "Harsh morning, huh?" He fills his bowl with the stew.

"Indeed." Altaïr replies, returning to his food. But he notices the commotion at the corner of the dining hall, briefly noting what happens, while keeping an ear out to hear the exchange of words.

"It's Basir." Khalid answers Altaïr's unspoken question. "He...has received a news of his student. Died this morning. Fell off a canyon outside of Masyaf."

"May his soul returns safely to the afterlife," Altaïr mutters.

"Tragic, really. He just returned from a mission when the storm started. The guards heard his horse, and they found him underneath it." Khalid sighs. "Abbas is worried as well. His students are on a mission since yesterday."

Altaïr cannot help but feel a bit guilty for letting his students leave. Knowing them, he knows Sofyan will lead the way - he has a better sense of direction than the rest of them. If the weather keeps up like this, their journey will be halted, and who knows if they can catch up with the Templars or not.

He notices Ambra's worried expression next to him, but she stays silent. Altaïr looks at Khalid, "When will he be buried?"

"After this, actually." Khalid replies. "Are you coming?"

"Yes. Not many may come in this weather, we might as well pay our respect."

After the breakfast, Altaïr rises from his seat to find Basir. The man is sitting in his table, surrounded by his students and fellow instructors. He does not look at Altaïr as he sits down opposite him. Ambra sits down behind Altaïr, between the grieving Bilal and Utsman.

Altaïr makes his presence noticed by greeting, "Basir," the instructor looks up at him, "I'm sorry for your loss."

Basir forces a thin smile through his thick beard, "Thank you, Altaïr."

"Shall we go now?" Altaïr asks.

Basir looks like someone who has lost a child. Then again, all instructors share the same concern for their students - fearing harm would come after them, or their naivety leads them to their death. It comes with the risk of being an assassin. But is it not a good end to an honorable life? They live to protect humanity, and die anonymously, with only their deeds to greet them in the afterlife.

The Masyaf cemetery is mostly empty, spared for two undertakers who are sheltering themselves under the roof of their humble establishment. The storm has not died out, making the short trip difficult. Basir leads the way for the small group of assassins, all instructors and some of the students follow him. Another hooded figure is sitting with the undertakers, surrounded by three guards, Al-Mu'alim himself. He rises from his chair upon seeing the group.

"Safety and peace, Master." Basir greets the man as loud as he can.

Al-Mu'alim walks out from the establishment to approach the group, "And upon you as well." He grabs a hold of Basir's shoulder, and the man shudders as if holding back tears. "You have taught him well, Basir, but his time has come. It is not your fault nor the weather. Have peace, my child."

Basir nods as Al-Mu'alim leads him through the cemetery. The guards providing light with their torches, shining the way through nameless headstones and mounds of dirt and snow. They reach a wide open hole. A body shrouded in white is lying beside it.

The undertakers jump into the hole that only reaches up to their chests. They take the body, dragging it gently into the hole, placing it carefully before climbing out of the hole.

Altaïr is not one to like funeral. Many of his brethren have died, but mostly died in another city, and buried where no one knows their names. He knows his parents' graves are here, whether side by side, he does not know. He has made peace with them, never returning to their graves, only praying for them silently. He watches the undertakers covering the hole with snow covered dirt.

Al-Mu'alim leads a small prayer that consists of blessing and wishes for the departed. When it is done, he pats Basir on the shoulder again, muttering calming words, before heading back to the fortress.

Altaïr turns to make sure Ambra is near him. He finds her standing beside him, looking down at the ground. Ever so obediently following his path. He follows the group away from the cemetery, muttering another prayer, hoping his students will not meet their fate at the end of dark graves.

 

The cold weather has changed many things in the fortress. For one, the water in the bathhouse has gone terribly cold, which renders bath time to be torturous. The training field is mostly covered with snow, and the students are required to shovel it off of the sparring ring, including Ambra.

She has given up on sparring after that incident with Majd's student, Jamal. Wrestling is not her forte - then again, neither is - and Jamal used it to his advantage. He tackled her to the ground, pinned both of her hands above her head, and positioned himself between her thighs. Quite an intimate position that caused her to kick her legs freely, trying to wipe that look off of his face. Thankfully, both Altaïr and Majd noticed, and the former jumped into the ring to drag the student by the neck, finally wiping off the smug look.

Then that incident becomes the end of her sparring with the brethren, much to her own dismay, and Kadar, to be honest. They were eager to spar against each other, but who are they to defy the instructors words? That does not mean her training in hand-to-hand combat ends. Altaïr has sparred with her occasionally, but sparing the wrestling. At least she managed to land kicks to his chest, though she had to suffer much more than that. Altaïr had deliberately avoided her face and head, which lead him to target her back and abdomen. She swears she can still remember the pain until now.

She finishes shoveling her side, huffing icy smoke as she straightens her back. The snow has stopped falling for today, although she wishes the storm will continue for another week so there will be no training, but being cooped up for a whole week in the same room as Altaïr is not as pleasant as being in the open area like this. The man likes to train in any place, not limited to the area, and he cannot sit still other than for meditating. For the past week during the storm, he decided to pick up their hand-to-hand combat training. On the cold floor. With an equally cold temperature, despite the burning brazier.

She places the shovel back to its place in the corner of the training field. Altaïr approaches her, wearing full effects despite hating them to be wet or rusted. "Your brethren have arrived at their respective bureaus," he informs, pulling two small parchments in his hands, and reads it to her. "'we are alive, Hamzah and Sofyan', and 'one target left, Tholeb'."

Ambra smiles widely upon their messages, glad to know they are not frozen somewhere. Although the scenario is not likely to happen, with how stubborn the three of them can be, and how accurate Sofyan's sense of direction is. "That's good news."

"Indeed." Altaïr pockets the parchments in his pouch, "we should start training soon. Prepare your sword."

It is enough to train under scorching heat, but training in freezing cold? The snow reaches up to her knees, and despite kicking it to clear a space away, there is still so much more. She follows Altaïr to their usual training spot, slightly annoyed by how easy the snow parts against his legs. With her, she has to lift her feet slightly, or risk falling forward into the biting snow.

He kicks the snow to clear a space for them to train, unsheathing his sword while doing so. She only recently notices that their swords are different. While his is sleeker in design and offers malicious glint, hers is broader with matted surface. "Unsheathe your sword." He orders.

She grips the handle of her sword, hissing at the contact with the metal surface. Cold - of course - she inhales deeply before unsheathing it. Her right palm feels burning from the cold, and she blows against it to soothe it. Easy for him to hold the sword, he's the one with gloves...

"I must emphasized that under any circumstances, do not - I repeat - do NOT drop your sword. It may be the only thing saving you from death." He says as he rolls his shoulders. The sword is held by his right hand, and he has stood in his usual posture, strong and hardy, like the man himself.

Ambra inhales deeply as she steadies her sword in one hand. Her arm and shoulder immediately strain against the weight, still not used to the weapon. At least the hidden blade is almost weightless, and training it is easier than with the sword. This one particular blade is difficult to master.

Altaïr strikes first, and she deflects. Their swords make a loud clink in the air, followed by a swish as she pushes his blade away from her. An appreciative nod comes from him, "Good."

He strikes again, and she repeats her movement. Deflect and push the blade away, make an opening to make the enemy more vulnerable, then either punch them or stab them with the hidden blade. He repeats his attack, this time faster than the last one, and she grunts upon deflecting it. Before she can gather her composure, he has swung again.

The blade stops a mere breath away from her left side of face. She exhales loudly, shivering in both fear and cold. Altaïr clicks his tongue, "You're dead." He pulls the sword to him, straightening himself up. "Swift movement, Ambra. Didn't Malik say to dodge what you can't deflect?"

He strikes again, left side - deflected - then right side - she dodges backwards. The soles of her boots nearly slip against the wet ground, and she staggers, only to be met by Altaïr's attack. She brings her sword up to deflect him, successfully, yet he simply kicks her legs from under her. She falls ungracefully onto the ground.

"And stand your ground," he says, holding out a hand to grab her upper arm and yanking her up.

"It's slippery." She replies, picking up her sword from the ground with the left hand, and kneading her backside with the right one. Even after those training, she still worries of accidentally flicking the hidden blade out.

"So it is after rain or snow, mind your steps and posture." He taps her left knee with the blade, before resuming his attack posture.

Ambra inhales sharply, slightly annoyed by the threat the ground possesses against her. She straightens her legs before resuming the defensive stance, already calculating how many new bruises she will receive today.

The training eventually has to be stopped after Altaïr slips and nearly does a split, only to use his free hand to stabilize himself on the ground. Ambra hears a distinct rip of fabric, and she is certain he does too, as he quickly stands up, smoothing the front of his tunics.

"Let's call it a day." He mutters.

She does not have to point out the obvious. The slight change in his walk makes it clear that the accidental slip has caused his trousers to rip. Well at least she constantly fell on her rear, in the price of having the back of her tunics wet from the contact.

Before they can walk back to the compound, a voice calls, "Altaïr!"

The assassin turns, annoyed. Ambra turns as well, finding Malik approaching them with scrolls in hand. "What is it, Malik?" Altaïr asks.

"Mission from Al-Mu'alim -" Malik turns to Ambra, the latter frowns. "For you." He hands two scrolls to her.

Please let it be killing mission, she prays as she unrolls the first scroll. Unfortunately for her, luck is not on her side, as the scroll shows the detail of the target. Informative mission. Altaïr asks for the first scroll and she hands it to him, as her other hand already unrolls the second scroll. Another informative mission.

"Alone?" She hears Altaïr asks Malik.

"Yes." Malik turns to Ambra, "whenever you're ready, report to Al-Mu'alim."

"Thank you, Malik." She replies, as he nods his head and leaves. She is conflicted. On one side, she is really glad to be given two missions at the same time. On another side, getting information is not that challenging. It is fairly easy, all it needs is a quick pair of hands - an added distraction works wonder too - to take any sorts of information in form of parchment or missive. So far, she notices that people tend to lower their guards when faced with a female, and that makes her job easier.

She is still reading the second scroll as Altaïr leads them back to the room. Her target is a newcomer, possibly a traveler, who just came last week and stayed in a house near the market - a relative's, according to the parchment. He is, possibly, a Templar associate. Her mission is to retrieve any proof of his tie to Templar, and anything that he exchanges with them in form of letters.

In the room, Altaïr hands her the first scroll, which she immediately reads while sitting on the chair. This one is a bit difficult. The target is another traveler, but not an associate of Templar. He is suspected as a member of a bandit group, and the guards are anxious, knowing how ruthless bandits can be - if there are multiple groups. Her mission is to gain information regarding the target's alliance with the bandit, and also their whereabouts.

She sighs, lowering her hood to scratch the side of her head. The hair that is tied in a bun is messy. Interrogating people is not her forte. She is not that intimidating, this she knows. However hard she tries to sound scary, it only hurts her throat, and the futile attempt is pathetic.

"Altaïr?" She calls, turning to the assassin who is now standing in front of the open wardrobe, his ripped trousers in hands. At least he has put on another pair, or she might relive another embarrassing moment.

"Hmm?" He replies, not quite looking at her. He is observing the damage of his pants.

"How do you become intimidating?"

Altaïr turns to her, eyebrows raise up. "I'm intimidating?"

She registers his fingers poking through the ripped fabric of his trousers in his hands, and she smiles at the sight, "Not right now, no. But everyone in the fortress respects you, most are afraid of you, to be honest."

He averts his gaze, as if thinking. The lips are slightly pursed, brows pinched, and he looks as if weighing his answer. "Rank." He finally says. "My rank is higher than most of them."

"No, that's not what I meant." She glances at the trousers in his hands. "If you don't mind, I can stitch that up for you."

He folds the trousers, putting it in the wardrobe. "Is it concerning your mission?" He reads her well, closing the wardrobe while saying so nonchalantly.

"Yes," she admits. "I may have to interrogate someone."

There is a smirk in the corner of Altaïr's lips, and he sneers, "How the last one went, I wonder."

Ambra groans, embarrassed, knowing very well what he means. The last time she tried to interrogate someone, the target intimidated her instead. Altaïr had to step in and take the matter in his own hand, and they agreed to pretend it never happened. "It was one time, I just need some practice." She says.

He takes a seat across from her, arms folded on the table, and she turns to face his scrutiny. "Interrogating is a matter of intimidation, Ambra. If your enemy doesn't fear you, then you're not intimidating to him. That doesn't mean there are no other way to intimidate someone." He leans closer over the table, "A threat, for one. Whatever advantages you have over the target, use them."

"I don't think I can pull that off without being laughed at."

"There's always this," he flicks his hidden blade, flawlessly clenches the blade between his fingers. "Are you not trained in stealth?"

"I -"

"Are you not trained in stealth?" He repeats.

Months of training to be silent pop into her mind, recalling the time when Altaïr instructed her how to walk quietly, to sneak up behind him. Something that she always fails to do. At least the brethren are easier to catch off guards, but she is certain Hamzah has a third eye behind his head, he is harder to catch.

"Yes, I am trained in stealth..." She replies.

"Then use that to your advantage as well." He stands up, offering his hand, which she reluctantly takes, knowing so well he is going to do something dangerous to demonstrate his words to her. And he does. He turns her back to him, hidden blade flicking out, and the cold metal is pressed against her throat. "Make your intention known, that harm will come to your target if he does not comply. A sword works well too." He unsheathes his sword with his free hand, and switches from the hidden blade to it. She tilts her head up as the metal makes contact with her neck. She feels his left hand on her back, the hidden blade is pressing threateningly against her belt. "Is it not easy?"

She does not realize that she has been holding her breath, only to exhale when he sheaths his blade and sword, allowing her to move away and look at him. "I suppose I can do that."

"You're my student. Of course you can. He gives a reassuring smile.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention and depiction of rape and abuse.
> 
> YOOOO check out Haaz Sleiman. He's the voice of Malik, and it seems Malik's physical feature is also based on him. Google him "Haaz Sleiman in Dorfman in Love" cause damn he's a cutie!

The snow only falls heavier, and by now Ambra is certain that she will catch a cold after the missions end. I better go now, she reminds herself. Her boots sink into the growing pile of snow as she makes her way to the compound. The coldness seeps into her shins, and it grows uncomfortable, annoying.

The door to Altaïr's room is locked, leaving her to stand outside, knocking on it for the second time. He must be in the bathhouse, she thinks as she blows her breath to her freezing palms. She leans against the stone wall, sighing, visibly trembles in her place.

Her missions went well. She managed to force her way into the Templars house and stole a satchel full of letters, all sealed in red cross. The other mission required her having to pretend as a citizen of Masyaf. She had to remove her effects and rolled on the snowy rooftop to make herself look pitiful, so the target could ask her to come into his house. When he did, she jumped onto his back, threatening with her hidden blade, until he gave her a map of the bandits plan. Both of the information have been handed to Al-Mualim, but the Grand Mentor asked her to wait, in case there is more to be retrieved.

Footsteps approaching from the staircase, and she turns to look. Jet-black hair and white kaftan, shorter stature than Altaïr, Malik. The assassin notices her, and he smiles as he approaches. A smile that falters as he notices her wet clothes.

"Safety and peace, Malik." She greets.

"Safety and peace - what happened?" He stops in front of her. A towel hangs around his neck, and he uses it to dry his hair.

"It's from the mission," She replies, chuckling, "but it went well - what are you doing?"

Malik is removing his kaftan, and offering it to her, "Take it." He pushes it to her.

"It's yours -" she protests, but immediately silenced as he tuts in annoyance.

"You can return it tomorrow." He insists, raising an eyebrow at her. She hesitantly accepts it, and only then he starts to smile. "How was the mission?"

Ambra drapes the kaftan around her shoulders, sighing contently at the warmth it offers, although it is too big for her. The tails are pooling around her feet. "It went really well, actually. I waited for the target to leave the house, then I broke through the bedroom window."

Malik grins, "Did you find what you're looking for?"

She cannot help but beam up at his expression, "Yes. A satchel of letters. The target was corresponding with the Templars."

"And? Have you killed him yet?"

"No, my briefing only said to retrieve evidence of correspondence." She looks at him worriedly, "Do I have to kill him?"

Malik shrugs, "Templars are not welcomed here. I'm sure he'll be dead either by your blade or someone else's. What did Al-Mu'alim say?"

"He's still going through the letters - Malik, are you sure?"

"About what?" He frowns, dark orbs slightly squinting at her question.

"The killing part." She replies quietly, unsure whether she is excited or nervous about it.

"Well, yes, but pay no mind to it. I'm sure someone is already sent to end his life." He offers a calming smile. At moment like this, Ambra keeps seeing Kadar in Malik - their similarity, especially their gaze, brings calmness to her. It is gentle and welcoming, giving her a sense of belonging.

She returns the smile, which immediately disappears as she remembers something. "I met Kadar and Bilal in the castle. Are they going on a mission?"

There is pride in Malik's expression, and it is also there in his tone of voice. "Yes. Killing mission just outside Damascus. There are news of bandits around the area." He suddenly frowns, "although the weather worries me so much... It may storm tonight."

She shivers at the thought of spending another stormy night outside of the warmth the room offers. The only outcome from it will be either fever or cold, and she does not want Altaïr to keep on taking care of her, or to notice her nightmare again.

Malik notices her discomfort, and opts to stand beside her on the wall. His shoulder is pressed against hers, giving her a bit of warmth from the freezing air. "I'd ask you to warm up in my room, but Altaïr will have my head by then."

"Malik," She hisses, blushing at the thought.

The older assassin offers a smile, "Oh now what do you have in mind? I was merely offering warmth by the brazier." She smacks his shoulder lightly, and he chuckles.

"Don't you have Lina for that?" She retorts.

"For what?" He turns to look at her, full lips tugging into playful smirk.

"For...you know, that." She turns her head to the stairs, half-wishing Altaïr will ascend anytime soon.

Malik laughs, and it reverberates through their joined shoulders. "For someone who befriends the courtesans, you are still very shy. I'm sure they made uncomfortable remarks now and then, I know they did."

She turns to face him, and he grins - possibly at the blush that spreads over her cheeks and nose. She has never seen Malik from this close. The first thing she notices is the dark orbs of his eyes, and the equally dark eyebrows, and the matching dark circles under his eyes. The corners or his lips are doing the quirky thing similar to what Kadar usually does whenever he smiles. She cannot help but return the smile, albeit sheepishly.

"Shyness and modesty," he says, voice voids of playfulness, "are two rare traits to be found in women. You, Ambra, are shy and modest."

Did he just compliment me? She stutters, "T-thank you...?"

"And gullible, inexperienced, and timid." He adds, then sighs. "But, I can't see you behaving like Talia or Lina -" he stops abruptly, frowning. "Hmm... No, I can't even imagine that. A good thing, actually. I believe Altaïr will avoid such behaviors."

"If I behave any different, I may as well become a courtesan." She mutters.

"And I'll be sure to visit you daily. That is if Altaïr has not beaten me to it." Malik grins wider.

"By Allah, Maliiik." she shakes her head, trying to erase the image of her lounging in the garden, being followed by Altaïr and Malik. Her blush grows furiously, and she fans herself from the sudden heat.

"Pay the teasing no mind, Ambra. You know I respect you." Malik says, "Kadar talked about you day and night like a concerned brother, such things as 'she has new bruises, Malik', 'Altaïr is too harsh on her', 'she wields the hidden blade better now'. If I dont know any better, I'd say he adores you, but I'm his brother. I know him like the back of my hand."

"Oh." Ambra feels another wave of blush crashing over her cheeks. That is...touching. A man other than Altaïr is worried for her.

Malik is eyeing her reaction, and it makes her uncomfortable. "But Bilal adores you."

She lets out an unexpected squeak, smacking him on the shoulder again. Malik lets out another laughter, body shaking against her shoulder.

"You're very easy to tease." He says through laughter.

"And you take joy from it," she huffs, placing her hands over her cheeks to soothe the redness forming there. How long has it been? Certainly Altaïr should be done by now... "Malik, did you see Altaïr in the bathhouse?" She asks as she pulls the kaftan tighter around her body.

"I don't believe I did, but I don't know where he went." Malik replies, voice turns into concern now. "I'd pick the lock on his door, but that would be crossing the line."

"So teasing his servant isn't considered crossing the line?" She retorts.

"What servant? I was merely teasing a sister." He replies nonchalantly. "If it's alright with you, my offer still stands. You can wait for him in my room, I assure you," he raises his hands, gesturing that he means no harm, "that I won't try to do anything stupid."

"As wonderful as it sounds, I don't want to provoke his anger. But thank you for the offer, Malik." She blows her breath onto her hands. The wet tunics are clinging against her skin, and how glorious it will be to remove them immediately.

Malik sighs, scratching the side of his head, "It'll be reckless of me to let a fellow assassin freeze to death."

She looks at him, lips pursed and slightly frowning, "Very well." She finally sighs. It will be unwise to catch another fever, and since Altaïr is nowhere to be found, she might as well take care of herself. Malik leads her to his room, the furthest one down the hall.

"Come on in," he says after unlocking the door and entering first. Intense warmth bites her cheeks and nose as she takes one step in, and she sighs audibly in relief. He chuckles at it, as he toes his boots off. She does the same, noticing the wet patches her boots leave on the stone floor.

Malik's room is as big as Altaïr's, with similar interiors, almost placed in the same places. Two carpets in the corner with a heap of big pillows and a folded fur blanket; a wardrobe by the foot of the carpets, and a bookshelf beside it with numerous leather-bound tomes and scrolls; a shelf full of clay jars in the opposite corner from the carpets; a wooden table with two chairs, the surface is littered with scrolls, charcoals, inks, and quills; the big clay jar filled with water beside the shelf; and a lit brazier with stacks of firewood beside it. There is an incense burning on top of the shelf, and it smells wonderful, like herbs and flowers.

Malik adds more firewood to the burning brazier. The heat increases, and Ambra feels thankful for it. She approaches the brazier, shrugging off the damp kaftan from her shoulders, and Malik takes it from her hand. "I'm sorry for ruining your kaftan," she says, as he throws it onto the chair.

"It can be dried, don't worry." He replies. He leaves her to warm up beside the brazier.

Ambra sits down on the floor, legs crossed, hood lowered, and palms facing the brazier, as she feels the heat thawing the coldness bit by bit. Her cold palms soon become warmer, and the front of her wet tunics become less irritating to deal with. She'd remove her belt, but it will be indecent, and who knows what Malik will say upon seeing the way she usually removes it. He won't let me live up to it, she thinks.

Malik is sitting down on the chair, face voids of playfulness. Instead, it turns seriously, as the brows furrows, and harsh lines of frowning form upon his forehead. He scowls, as his right hand takes hold of a quill, while the left one is flipping one scroll to another. A book is resting with the pages open in front of him.

"What are you doing?" She asks quietly, unsure whether it will distract him or not.

He does not lift his eyes to her, but answers nonetheless, voice softer than his expression, "I'm paraphrasing." He taps on the book with his left hand, "I borrow a book from the library, study it, and make notes from it. You'll be surprised at how much you can forget if you don't write it down."

Ah yes, Kadar has mentioned about Malik's form of lecture. He prefers to let his students read books and make notes from what they have learned, rather than blabbering for hours. She does not know which one is better, to be taught in the way of Malik's or Altaïr's, with the latter's preference towards hours of discussion and physical demonstration. She imagines how sore Malik's students must be, having to copy notes nightly.

She turns around to let her back have its moment with the brazier. The heat creeps up to her spine, seeping into her skin. "Lina said you can draw," she states.

A smile is forming on Malik's face, briefly, but it makes him look less angry. "Did she?"

"Yes, she said you drew a detailed portrait of her." She elaborates.

"It's a hobby," he replies. "Unlike Altaïr, I prefer to train my brain before my brawl. He can learn from that."

She shrugs, "He is knowledgeable too, although he is not as devoted to books as you are."

Malik chuckles, "And that is why he is of higher rank." There is sarcasm underlying his words, and she smiles at it.

Silence fills the room, as their conversation is turned into the sound of quill scratching against the parchment. Ambra turns in her seat again, facing the brazier to warm her front. From where she sits, she can see Malik scribbling and flipping the pages deftly, eyes darting from the book to the parchment with trained ease.

"Have you any question?" He asks, glancing at her before returning to his book.

"I mean no disrespect, but by now I believe you and Altaïr can read mind." She replies.

He raises an eyebrow at her, "If you're referring to the question, then the answer is simple. You always have that look of uncertainty. It's only natural that we ask the same question." He lowers his quill and wipes his hand with a stained rag. "Now, any question?"

"I'm merely curious," she starts, "about killing for the first time. What was it like to you?"

He hums, fingers drumming against the table as his face contorts into seriousness. "I was about your rank, I believe. Basir was my instructor, and he insisted his students should be trained to kill from lower rank. My target was a common thief. He didn't put up much of a fight - there was no need to. Once he realized an assassin is after him, he sort of accepted his fate."

Well at least some people are truly afraid of the assassins...

"I was twelve at that time. But this is what the Brotherhood wants, and this is our duty. I was certainly honored to be given the chance." He continues, fingers stop drumming, and he crosses his arms on the table, being careful not to smudge the parchment. "Kadar was a bit shocked at first, most of them are - it is normal. After the third kill, it became easier."

Ambra unconsciously straightens herself.

"The most important trait for an assassin to have is obedience. To uphold the principle of the Brotherhood means you live for this life, not for someone, not even for your own family, or your friends. You will be willing to die for this life, for the reward is greater in the afterlife. Say, you're tasked to kill someone, then you must obey without even thinking if they have family or not, if it's humane or not. Doing so will only be a hindrance, and you'll be risking the Brotherhood to the world." Malik sighs heavily, "this is what we are all struggling to do. I'm sure you share the same concern, you were not brought up to kill mercilessly.

"The second most important trait for an assassin to have is curiosity. You never truly know about something, only speculate. Just as how you speculate that Im capable of drawing, despite only hearing it from Lina, and not seeing the proof yourself. For all we know, she could be lying, or that my drawing is not as nice as she said it is. It's a good thing you possess hesitation and curiosity - you want to learn. To the best of the Brotherhood, I hope, and not for its worst."

Ambra shifts in her seat, "What if I hesitate while making the first kill?"

"Then pray that the enemy will not strike you first." Malik replies. "What's the point of being an assassin if you can't bring yourself to assassinate someone?"

Good point, she nods unconsciously. If she is sent to kill someone, surely it is because that person has done something terrible, right? Just like Jaqq - her blood goes cold from the thought of the man. Wouldn't it be glorious to watch him die by her blade?

It certainly will be.

"You will not lose yourself," Malik adds reassuringly. "Look at me, I've killed many, do you see me acting differently?" He raises both arms, a warm smile over his face.

She shakes her head in disbelief, at how delightful his tone of voice is. She finds herself smiling back at him. He makes everything sound easy, somehow talking to him makes her feel much better to face the upcoming mission.

"Thank you, Malik." She finally says, feeling a burden being lifted off of her chest.

"You're welcome, sister." He replies, before returning to his book and parchment.

 

Al-Mu'alim requests Ambras presence just before dinner. The news reaches her as she is heading to the dining hall from Maliks room. Quickly, she heads into the castle to meet the Grand Mentor. He smiles upon seeing her. "Ambra," he calls.

"Master," she returns the smile, bowing down slightly.

He turns his attention to his desk, opening a drawer, "You have permission to carry out the mission. Both targets, the Templar and the bandit, kill them."

Ambra's eyes widen. Her heart skips a beat upon hearing the order. He produces two feathers from the drawer, and places then on the corner of his desk. What now...?

"Take these feathers and dip them in their blood once you've killed them. These will be proof that you have successfully taken their lives." He explains, gaze softening upon her. "I understand if you're hesitating, my child, you may ask Altaïr to accompany you, if that will make you feel better."

She immediately shakes her head, "No, Master. I'll... I'll do it." She approaches the table to take the feathers. Soft, white feathers of an eagle, and she tucks them into her pouch. Al-Mu'alim is smiling at her, and she finds it reassuring.

"Allah be with you." He says before she turns on her heels and walks away from the chamber.

This is good...right? This means she is an assassin, right?

Her feet feel light when she steps out of the castle, absentmindedly turning to the western tower. She hopes Altaïr has returned - oh please be there - she needs his wisdom right now, more than anything. Her feet climbs the stairs slowly, dragging herself upwards to the third floor, but stops immediately upon noticing the lack of light from under Altaïr's door. Has he not returned yet?

Groaning, she climbs back down. Wherever he is, she hopes he will return soon, or she might ask Malik to pick the lock on his door. The brethren are heading to the dining hall, and she raises her head in hope to find Altaïr among them. It should be easy to find him in the crowd. He usually walks with a distinctive sway that she cannot describe, but she will know instantly if she sees him.

Nothing. Not one of those hooded men is Altaïr.

She reaches the bottom of the stairs, then heads to the fortress gate. The guard glances at her, and she stops, looking at him. "Have you seen Altaïr by chance?" She asks.

The guard looks over to her, "You're his servant?"

"Yes. Did he pass here a moment ago?"

"No. He has not passed yet."

Certainly he is not missing... "Thank you," she nods, and continues walking. Her heart feels heavier now, first from the killing missions, now from the prospect of having a missing master. Did he forget the time and lounge around in Masyaf? Is he locked outside the gate? Did someone kidnap him - now why would anyone want to do that - did someone kill him?

She slips into an alleyway and leans against the wall of a house. Her hands are trembling, both because of the cold and fear. I can do this, she assures herself. Her mind is replaying words of encouragement from Malik. I have to do this...

She tries to remember the mill. The cracks of whip and the screaming. The pain and embarrassment that she felt. The punishments her friends had to endure - the female's cries as their babies were taken away, and the male's constant apologies as they were forced to bed their fellow slaves. She remembers the smell of Jaqq, khamr and smoke, the feel of his rough hands on her skin, the smooth fabrics he usually wears. Her heart beats faster, as she is imagining impaling the man with her hidden blade. How shocking his expression must be. The eyes roll to the back of his head, breath choking as the blood gushes out of the wound she inflicts. And he breathes no more. Dead. For eternity.

When she opens her eyes, her hands have stopped trembling, and her feet regain their feeling. I can do this, she is certain. She grabs on the ladder and starts climbing up.

Jumping from one rooftop to the next is a bit difficult, but she'd rather travel like this than walking knee-deep in the snow. She nearly slips for many times, but manages to regain her footing before resuming the jump. The first target is the Templar, and she has her eyes on his house.

She manages to land a jump on the roof of his house, and quietly, she lands behind the house, next to the bedroom window. There is light coming from the inside, and she peeks through the gap, listening to muffled sound of two people arguing. Two men, one of them sounds like the Templar, while the other is not.

She has to distract one of them, either the Templar or the homeowner. The first thing she has in mind is to knock on the door until one of them appear, but that will be risky. The second thing she has in mind is to wait for them to fall asleep, then kill the Templar in his sleep. That seems better...

The bedroom is empty from where she can see. She unsheathes her sword, jamming the metal in the gap, and pries the window open. It creaks loudly as the latch breaks, and she quickly closes it, in case the occupants decide to take a look. Ten seconds pass, no other sound but their bickering, each shouting at each other.

She opens the window quietly, looking into the room. Her sword is sheathed. This is the chance... She slips into the bedroom, closing the window behind her in process, and then tiptoes to the bed. She slides under the one near the wall, pressing her back against the corner, as she waits for them to return to the room.

From this side, she can hear their bickering clearer. They are talking about names she has not heard before, about artifact, about an agreement. Something called 'chalice' and 'apple' - then the Templar blabbers about how his life will end if he has not found a clue yet. The homeowner mentions of Al-Mu'alim, of the passing guards, of the possibility that he can help him. Relying a message or something.

This is not good, she may have to kill him too.

After what seems like an hour or two, the bedroom door is slammed open. A pair of feet appears in the doorway, making its way to the bed above Ambra. She breathes through her mouth slowly, trying to avoid making a noise. The second pair of feet enters the room, and the bedroom door is closed.

"I'll ride to Jerusalem in the morning, my friend. You don't have to worry." The homeowner says.

"The guards are acting suspiciously - how am I not worried?" The Templar says. The bed creaks as he lies down flatly against it.

"It's the bandits that agitates them, not you." The homeowner assures him. "If you are marked for death, the assassin will come to you, not the guards."

"How reassuring." The Templar rolls on his bed.

It takes another hour for Ambra to be sure that they have fallen asleep. Her back and side are cold from the contact against the stone floor and wall. She listens to their breathing, calm and peaceful, before shuffling quietly out of her hiding spot.

Now to kill them. She stands between both beds, contemplating whether to kill them one by one or just ends their lives at the same time. She opts to use her sword. Kill them one by one, swiftly, in case the other tries to kill her too.

She unsheathes her sword. The blade glistens under the oil lamp. Her grip is tight and sure, as she heads to the side of the Templar. She raises her sword, pointing the blade down to his chest, and she takes a deep breath. May Allah have mercy on your soul and mine... She thinks before plunging the blade as deeply as she can.

The Templar jolts awake and screams, and she instantly plunges deeper, twisting the sword in progress in hope to end his suffering quicker. The homeowner is awaken by the noise - she notices - and she removes her sword from the bleeding man.

"Wait!" The homeowner shouts, but she pays him no mind. Her sword makes contact with his chest, plunging deeply into where his heart is. He gives out a groan before slumping on the bed, chest heaving once, then heaving no more.

Ambra removes her sword from the dead man, suddenly feeling sick upon seeing the blood coating the metal. She wipes it against the blanket before sheathing it. Sticky. The air is filled with a bitter metallic and acidic smell, and both men are lying lifeless. Their blood trickling down to the floor below the bed.

Her hands start to shake - calm down, calm down - she shuffles to the window, opening it to let fresh air in. She fights back the urge to throw up. I did it... She sniffles. I made my first kill...

She nearly forgets to swipe the Templar's blood with the feather. When she does it, she looks at his expression. Pained. Agony. Lifeless and motionless. This is what Jaqq will be eventually. Her heart beats loudly in her ears as she carefully brings the blood coated feather to her face. How glorious it will be if only this is Jaqq's blood.

After tucking the feather safely, she bides farewell to the bodies, and climbs out of the window. The cold wind greets her, and she welcomes it greatly.


	15. Chapter 15

It must have been midnight when she finishes her second killing mission. It goes swiftly. The bandit does not resist as her sword pierces him in his inebriated state. He must have been drinking so much, knowing his life ends tonight. She mutters a small prayer for him while swiping the feather with his blood.

The guards are changing shifts. They notice her as she walks by, but pays her no mind after seeing her attire. She is exhausted, and cold, and hungry. Her legs are numb from being under the snow for too long. The climb to the fortress does not help, as it strains her calves and thighs. Eventually, she manages to reach the fortress gate with labored breathing.

The first place she heads is the castle. The guards on the stairs look at her, confused. Al-Mu'alim must have been asleep. She walks past them, and straight to the empty desk, huffing upon reaching there.

"The Grand Mentor has just retired to his room," one of the guards informs her.

"Of course," she huffs, unsure of what to do now.

He looks at her, a sympathetic look on his hooded face. "Go and take a rest, assassin. You can report in the morning."

She nods, "Thank you."

Her legs are wobbling as she walks down the stairs. The library is empty, but two scholars are busy on the table, writing on their parchments. When she exits the castle, her stomach rumbles loudly, and she bites down a groan. There is food in the room, she reminds herself, surely Altaïr is home by now.  
She does not think the missions will take this long. Now she wonders if Altaïr has ever waited for the target for more hours than her. Although with his skill, she is certain he can handle the mission better than her, possibly killing the target in the first chance he has. I wonder if he's still awake... I definitely have to ask him about that.

When she reaches the third floor, there is light coming from under Altaïr's door, and she is glad he is home. But her attention turns to a parchment stuck on his door, pinned by a throwing knife. Her heart stops at the sight - it looks like a warning. Has he angered someone? Did I do something wrong?

She approaches quietly, heart thumping louder again, and suddenly the feeling of exhaustion washes off of her. The note is pinned high on the door, covering the assassin symbol that is etched there. Oh, it's from him, she sighs in relief upon noticing his name written there. She tugs the parchment free from the throwing knife, and reads it.

"Ambra, I'm feeling a bit ill. Going to rest. Door's unlocked. Altaïr."

Still does not explain where he has been the whole afternoon, but alright... She shakes her head in disbelief. Apparently he is still human. She takes notice of his handwriting - this is the first time she ever sees it, and my, how messy it is. Either because he wrote it quickly or because he rarely uses his hands for writing.

Her attention turns to the throwing knife on the door, and she cannot help but imagine him pinning the parchment angrily on the door with the knife - she knows he keeps plenty in the wardrobe. She is amused by the thought, but frowns nonetheless upon trying to remove the knife. At this rate, he could have made a new hole on the door.

She manages to remove the throwing knife with a bit of difficulty, as it is located higher than she is. She huffs at the offending weapon, then tucks it in her belt. The parchment in her hand is folded, and she reaches for the door handle. Is he asleep? Well if he is, then he will wake up either way...

The door creaks open slowly, and she peeks into the room. Warmth greets her, and the sight of bundle covered by fur blanket is on the carpet. She slips into the room, taking off her damp boots as quietly as she can be, before locking the door behind her. The brazier has been moved to be near the carpet, and the light from it shines upon the face lying under the blanket. Her heart sinks to her stomach at the sight.

Altaïr is sleeping soundly in the middle of the carpet, legs tangled up in the fur blanket, as he is facing the brazier. His face is a bit red, especially the nose, and she wonders if he has caught a cold or fever. He looks vulnerable like this.

A part of her feels guilty for not finishing the missions sooner. She could have been here to take care of him, not being a useless assassin on the city, hesitating to strike. She lowers her damp hood, before sitting down beside him.

He looks peaceful and...beautiful. The sculpted cheeks and nose, and the shape of his lips. The dark locks that falls on his forehead. Everything about him - she openly adores him, feeling her heart racing at the sight of him. He must have been tired, training her must have been exhausting, not to mention the stress from having his students out there.

She recalls when he took care of her. What did he feel? Did he feel annoyed? She imagines he did, she is a handful to be taken care of anyway. I haven't been a good servant... She smiles softly at him, well I'm here now, so let's take care of you...

She places a hand over his forehead, and the burning skin greets her. Fever, and possibly cold too, seeing how red his nose is. She is about to stroke his hair when his eyes suddenly open, glaring with shock at her, and he flinches.

"It's me, it's me..." She tries to calm him down. His breathing is quicken from the shock, his heartbeat must have been too.

"Ambra -" he groans, voice raspy as he speaks.

"I know, I'm sorry." She smiles apologetically.

He takes her hand from his forehead. At first, she thinks he would like to remove it. But then he moves it lower, and holds it against his burning cheek. He props himself up on one elbow, as he leans into her palm. "Hello." He croaks, and suddenly smiles.

"He-hello?" Why is he smiling? Is he dreaming?

He turns his lips to her palm, and her face blushes immediately as he kisses her palm gingerly, once, before turning to face her again. Cheek pressed against her hand. "Your hand's cold." He mutters, looking at her from half-lidded eyes. The golden orbs look fascinating in the firelight.

She stammers, "I'm sorry...?"

"No, it feels good." He sighs contently.

She sits still, watching him exchanging body warmth with her cold hand. How...odd. The fever must have subdued him, his guard is down, no hint of coldness from him. Seeing him like this makes her heart ache. The fact that she could have taken care of him sooner makes it worse. She almost does not return tonight - what if the mission has gone wrong? Even if it is just a fever and a cold, it is his expression that makes her ache. He is glad that she has returned.

"I'm home, Altaïr." She chuckles, feeling his breath on her wrist.

His eyes open up to look at her emerald orbs, "Welcome home, Ambra."

"Let me change my clothes first, then we'll take care of you." She says, waiting for him to remove her hand from his grip. He reluctantly does so, but still props himself on his elbow, watching her standing up and heading to the wardrobe. "Have you taken the herbs yet?" She asks, opening the wardrobe.

"No - how was your mission?" He returns the question. He sounds a bit muffled.

Ambra removes her hood and holster, letting them fall on the floor. "It went well. I...got to kill them."

Altaïr lets out an appreciative hums, "Congratulations."

"Thank you," she unhooks her belt, placing it and the sword carefully on the floor. The sash follows shortly. "I didn't think i'd get to kill them, actually..."

"How many did you kill?"

She removes her outer tunic, grunting, then removes the inner tunic. The cold air nips her skin, and she blushes as it attacks her breasts. She leans forward into the wardrobe. The door manages to hide her torso, "Three," she puts on a new inner tunic. How warm, she hugs herself briefly before moving to slides her trousers down. "Two targets, and one...uh...collateral. He was an ally of the Templar." The trousers hit the floor with a wet plop. She grabs a new pair and puts it on.

"How did you kill them?"

She gathers her effects and wet clothes in her hands, moving them to the table. "Sword to the chest," she begins to fold the wet clothes, "they didn't die instantly, though."

"Aim for the neck, they'll die quicker." He says, making a motion with his right hand, as if stabbing himself in the neck. "They'll bleed a lot too, so try not to stab them from below."

"I'll keep that in mind." She smiles at his aloofness. Once her effects are laid out on the table to dry, she turns to the clay jar to wash her hands and wet her face. The water is cold, but refreshing. Her stomach rumbles quietly, but Altaïr comes first. She turns back to the table, and takes out the throwing knife that is tucked in her belt. "I received your note, by the way." She shows him the knife, and he chuckles at it. "Could you, please, not do further damage to the door?"

"It's my door. I can do what I want." He replies, a cough follows behind. Ambra stores the knife in the wardrobe, now eyeing at him worriedly. He notices her stare as he is coughing onto his palm. "I'm fine." He grunts.

"Of course you are. How about taking the herbs?" She comes to him, sitting down beside him on the floor, where the brazier warms her numb legs and cold fingertips.

He shakes his head, frowning, "They smell horrible."

"They're not that bad, actually." She smiles, oh how the tables have turned. "Please eat the herbs?"

He casts her a glare, "Are you trying to kill me?"

She laughs at his stubbornness, "Altaïr, it's for your own good." She is taken aback as he takes her left hand, pulling on her wrist towards him as he lies back down.

"Just sleep. I'll be alright in the morning." He mutters, pulling on her hand, making her sit up on her knees. She supports her weight on her right hand, a blush forming on her cheeks as she realizes she is above him.

There goes dinner, she sighs, "Alright. But if you're not better by tomorrow, promise that you'll take the herbs."

"I promise - now get here." He yanks her hand again.

Something is off from him. It is like he changes over the course of hours, and the usual stoic Altaïr is replaced by a more expressive one. Is he always like this when he is ill? He is staring at her, half-lidded hazel eyes looking intently.

She moves over him to place herself on her side of the carpet. While he opens the fur blanket for her to slide into. The warmness of the material envelops her completely, and she cherishes the feeling - after hours out in the cold, finally something warm to slide into.

The blanket is not the only warm thing on the carpet. She is surprised as Altaïr tugs on her hand, "Hmm?" She turns to him, but he says nothing, only moving her hand to place it over his cheek. He is facing her, positioned at eye level, and too close than usual. "Do you need cold compress?"

"This one will do." He looks at her, frowning. "How long were you out there?"

"A while," she replies.

"I didn't see you this evening."

"I didn't see you either. Where were you?" She asks, eyebrows raised in worry at him.

He sighs, blinking slowly, "Running an errand at the stable. Too much to explain. I bought a kaftan for you."

"Oh..." She grins, "thank you..."

"They're your size, I'm sure." He clears his throat, a large hand wraps around her back, pulling her to him.

Ambra tenses at the sudden action, but keeping her hand on his burning cheek. He has closed his eyes, forehead touching hers, nose brushing against her own. In more than a year they have shared the room, he has never displayed physical intimacy with her. Holding her hand, that is one, she counts. He is always stoic and composed, so why is he like this right now?

As if hearing her thoughts, he opens his eyes. There is an air of tension as they hold their gaze on each other. Ambra cannot still her beating heart. His eyes are gorgeous in this light, almost fiery. His lips twitch slightly, and she finds herself lowering her hand to his lips, trailing the scar there, feeling the smooth texture with her thumb, a contrast to his stubble. His eyes flutter close.

"Ambra," he sighs, and she stops. Feeling his breath upon her palm.

Her breath hitches as his hand trails upwards to her arm and to her shoulder. A gentle movement, yet it sets fire to her belly. It trails up to her neck, pressing gingerly against her jawbone, before cupping her cheek. He opens his eyes, as his fingers continue moving to caress the bridge of her nose.

She yelps as he suddenly flicks her nose, "Ow!"

"Don't tempt me."

"I'm not attempting anything." She rubs her nose with her other hand, pouting at him.

"Your body is cold, mines too hot. If both of us fall ill at the same time, it'll be disastrous. He mutters, already closing his eyes. "Sleep."

He has a point, she groans inwardly. She shuffles deeper into the blanket, making him grunts in protest, as he pulls herself to his chest. His chin rests on top of her head. He radiates body heat, too much to her liking, and she sighs at the intensity. The close proximity lets her smell his usual musk, earthen and straw, with a hint of metal and leather. His breathing soon becomes calmer, a hint of snoring follows, and she lets it become her lullaby.

Her sleep is not without distraction, though. Sometime in the night, Altaïr wakes up, and sits up to let out a violent cough. Ambra sits up as well, frowning at the sound. She pats his back, waiting until the coughing fit is done.

His eyes are red and wet, "Water." He croaks.

She immediately fetches it for him. The water is cold, but that is the only thing that they have. She can try warming it up on the pot, though. She grabs the herbs on the shelf as well before returning to him.

"Now would you please take the herbs?" She asks as he drinks from the cup.

He stubbornly shakes his head, "No."

"What should I do to make you take them?" She wonders if she can slip them into food, so he can eat without noticing them. But the smell - yes, there is no way of masking that smell.

"I'll be fine." He coughs again, and she takes hold of the cup for him. He sniffs between cough, nose red as he wipes it.

"I could go to the healer and buy more medicine." She offers.

"No - Ambra -" he coughs once, then clears his throat. "I'll be fine." He repeats the same words.

"Had I said the same when I was ill, would you let me be?" She says gently, noticing him turning to her, face red. "I'm your responsibility, but your well-being is my responsibility as well. What kind of a servant am I if I cannot take care of my master?"

He looks like he is about to say something, but it dies down when another cough erupts. She hands him the cup of water, and he takes it gladly.

"Stay." He huffs. "That's an order."

Ah, he says the word.

"Very well." She sighs, smiling a bit at him. Taking the empty cup from him, she asks, "Would you please lie down?"

He lowers himself back onto the carpet, "You're not coming?"

"Wait." She replies, and stands up to head for the shelf. Her stomach rumbles loudly, great timing. Thankfully there is still bread. That will have to do to stuff the hunger.

She takes out a pot from the shelf, and fills it with water from the clay jar. Then she places it on the brazier. Altaïr watches her, "What are you making?"

"Just boiling water," she heads back to the shelf, "may I have some food?"

"Take them freely -" aaaand he coughs again. She shakes her head, how stubborn is he going to be about this? If she does not remember her duty as a servant, she'd shove the herbs down his throat immediately, possibly with the help of Malik.

She eats quietly on the chair, appreciating the food that glides down to her stomach. Altaïr's eyes are boring into the side of her face. The occasional coughing becomes the music that fills the silence between them.

"You're upset." He states suddenly.

"I'm thinking." She replies.

"Of ways to make me take the herbs?"

"Of what can I do to make you feel better." She finishes her bread, then heads to grab a drink.

"I rarely get sick, Ambra." He sniffles. "But when I do, sleep is all I need to recover."

She finishes her drink and sets down the cup on the shelf. The water in the pot has started to boil. She grabs an unused rag, and removes the pot from the brazier, placing it on the floor. She heads to the shelf again to take a cup.

How easy for him to dismiss his illness like that. Has he not known how worried she was when he disappeared without notifying her? If he was gone - and she doubts he will be so easily - then what will she do? A servant failed to serve her master, great. She is tempted to defy him for his own good now. Perhaps slipping out to seek Malik's help? She'd ask for Kadar's, but he has left for Damascus for a mission. If only her brethren are here, Sofyan, Hamzah, and Tholeb, they certainly will share the same concern as her to Altaïr.

"Ambra?" He croaks as she sits down beside him, scooping out the boiling water carefully.

She hands the cup to him, "Be careful, it's hot."

He blows on the water before tilting the cup carefully to his lips. His eyes, however, do not leave hers. He lets out a satisfied groan after a sip, holding the cup in one hand. "What's on your mind?" He asks, another hand reaches out to her.

She takes his hand, hot meets cold. "A lot. Mostly involving unacceptable actions I can do to make you take the herbs." He smiles at her reply. "Without or with defying your order. Your well-being comes first, Altaïr."

"I assure you, I will be fine. Just stay here." He squeezes her hand.

"I can't cure you, you know."

"I know, but I need you here."

Need?

Altaïr has the look of a defeated man, something she never sees in him. He forces a smile, something bad definitely has happened. "Hamzah is injured."

Ambra's eyes widen, the smile falters, and he tightens his grip on her. "How...how bad?"

His lips turn into a thin line, "He'll make it."

A lie.

She feels tears prickling in the corners of her eyes, and she wipes them before they can threaten to fall down. "That bad?"

He lets out a sigh, "The arrow pierced his chest. Sofyan managed to bring him to the bureau - he is being taken care of right now." He pulls her closer, but she stills in her seat. "Tholeb is on his way to Acre. He informed about the growing number of bandits in the area, but he cannot return yet."

Death is a part of this life, Ambra reminds herself. But the reality is scarier than the theory. If Hamzah were to die - no, don't think like that - he is going to make it. He...is going to return. They are going to train together, him and his witty remarks, his stories of successful assassinations. He will return and tell about how he nearly dies - he will be alright.

She inhales deeply, closing her eyes to calm herself down, while Altaïr keeps tugging on her hand. "He'll live." She manages to say, opening her eyes to look at him. If anyone needs reassurance, it is him. Hamzah is his student, his responsibility, he must have felt awful from the news. She offers him a smile.

"Yes, he will." Altaïr replies. "He will live."

"He's going to be alright. But he will definitely feel horrible if his instructor is ill when he returns." Despite the aching heart, she forces a smile. Be strong now. Somehow now she realizes the change in his manner, how...touchy he becomes, how gentle he is right now. With the three of his students on the field, she is the remaining one. She recalls the time when Basir had to bury his student, the grief he showed, there is nothing that anyone can do to replace his student.

"I'm sorry." Altaïr mutters. "I'll take the herbs now."

She squeezes his hand before standing up, grinning, "I have to warn you that they're very horrible." She takes the pouch on the shelf, returning to his side.

"You took some and live, I don't think they're that awful." He turns his head to cough.

Ambra opens the pouch, nose immediately scrunches up upon the smell. She takes one roll, and offers it to him. He glances at her, frowning, ready to protest. She gives a nod of encouragement. He inhales deeply before opening his mouth, taking in the herbs and her fingertips with him. She stifles a giggle upon seeing his sour expression. "Not bad, right?"

He swallows quickly and washes the taste with water. "By Allah - what was that?"

She takes the empty cup from his hand, refilling it with the water from the pot. "I should ask you the same. You were the one who bought it."

He takes the cup from her hand, blowing on the water hastily before downing it almost in one gulp. "The taste lingers. How did you cope with it?"

She shrugs, "I have a persistent master." She stands up to set the horrible herbs back on the shelf.

Altaïr has set down his cup, now lying down on the carpet. The coughing fit has reduced, not as frequent as before. He looks at her as she takes a seat on her side of carpet, sliding under the blanket. "Let's take a day off tomorrow." He says, as she has lied down beside him, turning to face her.

"Of course, but I need to meet Al-Mu'alim in the morning. I haven't reported back yet." She replies, suddenly feeling shy as he resumes the sleeping position as before. His hand tugs hers to be placed upon his cheek.

His eyes are looking at her, observing, as if taking her sight thoroughly. He must have felt worried today. Is that why he left without notice?

"Do you need anything?" She asks, voice almost sounds like a whisper.

He does not answer immediately, but she notices the slight opening of his lips, as if he is about to speak. But no words come out. Instead, he slides his hand to the back of her head, a gesture that makes her tensed up, as it tickles. He looks unsure at first, but then he tugs her to him.

Ambra feels Altaïrs lips brushing over hers, briefly, before he stops himself. His hand is clenching the back of her head. His breath has gotten laboured all of the sudden, hot, over her face. She looks at his eyes, finding hesitation there, finding the hazels are reduced to thin rings around the dilated pupils. She raises her hand to cup his jaw, and there he is, hissing at the contact, eyes closing.

When he pulls backwards, he drops his forehead to hers, huffing loudly. "Ambra..."

"Yes?"

But he has fallen asleep quickly, burning forehead pressed against hers. The herbs are in full effect. But Ambra cannot sleep yet. Her lips still feel a bit tingling from his abrupt action. Blush creeping up her cheeks and spreading evenly. He just kissed me, she reminds herself. A reminder that soon turns grimly is it not his right as her master to do whatever he pleases with her?


	16. Chapter 16

A banging. A loud one. And Altaïr jolts awake, surprised to see he is clutching onto a pillow rather than Ambra. He swears he was holding onto her before.

He lifts his head from the pillow. The banging comes again, as if coming from his head, and he grunts in protest. He sits up carefully, eyes scanning the room for her, and there she is. She is holding the door close.

"What are you doing?" He asks, but she does not respond. The wooden door is banged from the outside. He stiffens, immediately trying to stand up. Someone unwanted is by the door - who and why - he cannot wonder.

He staggers forward, and that is when she notices him. "Altaïr, stay there!" Why is she shouting? What is that sound? Wind?

The banging gets louder, and she is thrown backwards by the impact. She manages to roll, then heading immediately to the door, alas, something or someone is slamming it open.

Gust of wind, snow - he squints at the intensity. She tries to close the door again, but to no avail. He hears her groaning, the wooden door slams against the wall, a louder banging.

He does not have time to react as she is pulled out of the room. No screaming. No sound. She vanishes completely. "Ambra!" He calls, staggering forward as quickly as he can. But the ground is unstable, is the world ending? He wonders. He falls forward, heart nearly stops as the stone floor disappears from underneath him.

Altaïr jolts awake, heart beating rapidly, as the breathing gets labored. A hand cups his cheek, and he looks up - more than happy to meet the emerald greens that are looking at him intently.

"Altaïr, please move for a bit." Ambra says. A banging is heard, and his head immediately turns to the door. "Hush, hush, someone's by the door for a while." She caresses his cheeks.

He rolls over to his side, and she sits up, immediately stands up and stretches. He watches her walking to the door. This is reality, he swallows. She is not going to vanish completely...

She unlocks and opens the door, but only letting it open slightly. He strains his ears to listen to the unwanted visitor. If only his heart would stop beating in his ears. He inhales deeply, head plops down onto the pillow, defeated.

"Thank you, Ahmed. I'm sorry for the disturbance." She says. Ah, so his neighbor decides to visit?

She closes and locks the door again. Her hands are not empty, instead carrying a pouch and a small wooden box. "What are those?" He croaks.

"Mint and ginger in here," she shakes the pouch. "And ointment. He didn't say what it's made of, though, but he claims it warms up the body." She looks at the box, frowning. "Would you like them now, Altaïr?"

He shakes his head furiously, "No, just return here, Ambra."

She places the pouch and the box on the table, before moving back to the carpet. He needs her - but why? Never mind why, her presence here delivers him peace. She turns to him, but not yet moving, as if waiting for him to make the first move.

He pulls her to him, wrapping her in his arms almost suffocating. She brings one hand to his back and the other to his chest. He hums at the contact, sighing. He needs this. That is all he knows. He needs her here.

"Altaïr," she calls.

"Yes?" He mutters, inhaling the smell of her sweat.

"Are you feeling alright?"

What kind of question is that? "I am now." He sighs.

"You were groaning in your sleep." She strokes his back. "Did you have a nightmare?"

Yes? No? I don't know?

He huffs. "Just the fever."

Despite the calming gesture she is showing, he cannot bring himself to sleep. Her heartbeat is loud to him, and quick. The event of last night flashes in his mind - he kissed her. He is surprised she has not scurried away from his touch yet. There is so much he wants to say to her, but how? She deserves to know something, but revealing everything will only worry her, and she is already worried for him.

When he received the news of Hamzah's injury, his mind was blank. For once, he was at loss for words. Surely he has lost fellow brethren during their mission, but none of them socialized daily with him. It is best to be kept like that, spare the sympathy for each other.

But a student - someone he teaches from of young age, from nothing to something - that is harder to face. He still remembers young Hamzah, trying to be like him, quiet and quick with blade. But only in the training field. He remembers punishing him for causing a ruckus in the middle of the night. He remembers how he tried to refrain himself from the courtesans, but eventually submitted to them and visited occasionally, courtesy of Sofyan. He remembers the deadly accuracy of his aim, despite the lack of strength, and he has discussed of trying out the crossbow sometimes in the future.

Somehow this reminds him of what happened ten years ago.

The news wrecks Altaïr. That is for sure. For someone who tries to be apathetic to grave news, for someone who lives with death, he took the news rather badly. He does not know which is worse, that Hamzah nearly died or that Sofyan had to carry him back to the bureau - it must have been hard on him. They practically grew up together.

And Tholeb's latest news is not good either. He literally flings himself to the enemies. Bandits. Altaïr knows how fast he can be, but that does not ensure his ability when being outnumbered. He blames himself for this. It was his decision to send his students out on their killing missions, while he can do those quicker and more efficiently, not that they cannot do the same.

To top it off, Ambra was sent on two missions. Despite being in Masyaf, and however simple they may be, he knew that she would be made to kill the targets. Interrogations lead to killing, and Templars are not welcomed anywhere they are. He was tempted to help her, he even tried to follow her, but he stopped himself. No. Eventually she has to learn on her own.

He had spent the entire evening outside of Masyaf, opting to rest by the archway on the outskirts of town. His mind was troubled, even helping Salaf, the stable owner, for a while did not manage to distract him. He was numb, and for once, lost.

He should have returned to the fortress sooner, but he could not. There was nothing to distract him there, waiting for Ambra only brought more agony than relief. But out there, under the arch, gazing at the canyons as the snow fell down, he felt at ease. His mask fell - an assassin first, then a man. And out there, he felt like a child again.

When midnight came, and Ambra had not returned yet, he had the urge to search for her. Yet he had no energy left to move - and this is the result of sitting in the snow for too long. He does not dare to admit it to her, though, she will definitely find this amusing. And thankfully, she never pries.

There was no word that can explain the feeling when she sat down beside him, waking him up. The emerald orbs, the gentle gaze, and the soft smile - he needs her. Not in a particular way. He needs her to stay with him. At least one of his students is safe under his wings.

Since when does he start to lower his guard around her? Then again, they have been sharing the same room for over a year, it is only a matter of time for them to be familiarized like this. He recalls her changes, from being overly quiet to having opinions on her own, from being scared of anything to being able to laugh he wonders if she still has the same fear over the slavery mill.

Curling up to her like this, he has to admit, it cannot go on forever. However he enjoys the gesture, he is worried to fall into temptation - he almost did, when that fingertips of her caressing his lips, trailing his scar, the pupils of her eyes dilated, breathing hard, but he could not do more. No. Not yet. She could be ruined.

But she is enjoying this, is she not? Or does she act like this because he makes her do so? Does she need this too? He can read her easily, and hearing her heartbeat drumming like this answers that she does, despite the age gap, find this to her liking.

Is this not allowed? She is his servant, after all, why would this not be allowed? Just until I recover... He promises himself. He doubts she is glad to wake up being crushed by his heat all the time. With this resolves, Altaïr closes his eyes, taking in her smell and the coldness of her fingertips, and the warm breath on his chest. He leans further to embrace her.

The rest of his day is a mixture of eating, talking, and sleeping. When lunchtime comes, he wakes up alone on the carpet. Before he can panic, however, he hears Ambra shuffling by the wardrobe, already putting on her effects. How she manages to get away from his arms, he does not bother to ask.

He understands her routine must have been more tedious than his - leaving the room to take lunch, feeding him, half-forcing the dreadful herbs to him - and the best thing he can do right now is be obedient. He grows bored afterwards, but his heavy head forces him to sleep. For once, he relieves Ambra from being his personal pillow.

But then he wakes up again, and it is almost dinnertime, and he manages to catch Ambra sleeping with her face pressed on the table. Her hidden blade and a sharpening stone by her head. She wakes up before he can say anything, wiping a hint of drool from the side of her face, and he watches her leaving the room to get dinner.

Eventually he gets utterly bored from the idle routine, that after taking the herbs, he stays sitting up on the carpet. Much to Ambra's dismay - who is so keen on him to rest. He observes her, she has already regained her energy from the short naps she takes, but traces of sleep are still prominent around her eyes.

"Talk to me." He says, head resting against the wall.

"What do you want to talk about?" She asks, sitting beside him on the carpet, facing him.

"Anything, or so bring me a weapon - this is torture."

She purses her lips, "Well... There has been speculations about your health in the dining hall. The brethren believe you are ill - but I did not say anything. They send their well wishes."

"Much appreciated," he mutters. "Any news from your brethren?"

"None, Altaïr."

Then silence.

"You should rest." She says after a while.

"I've been resting, Ambra." He replies curtly. He despises cold - the stuffed and runny nose, the sore throat, the change in his tone of voice - it is uncomfortable. He breaks cold sweat now and then, briefly, then his body decides to stay feverish, and his head will start pounding again.

"There's no other option, really..." Ambra says, and from the look in her face, she is thinking of a way to entertain him. "I could borrow a book from the library. What would you like to read?"

As much as it will amuse him, he does not want to spoil the pages with his illness. The scholars will ban him and her from borrowing books ever again. "No, not that." He shakes his head, erasing the mental image of a scholar berating him for returning a book in poor condition.

Ambra looks as stumped as he is. "There are things Id like to ask you, actually. But if it hurts to speak -"

"No, by all means, ask away." He props himself higher on the pillows.

She is biting the inside of her lip, from the look of it. "Do you mind telling me about the first time you kill?"

"Not at all, why?" He studies her expression.

"I believe Ive given them painful death - it wasn't my intention, honestly, I might have been nervous about it." She exhales quite heavily.

"You stabbed them in the chest, it bounds to be painful, but they had it coming." He replies. "Still interested in my first kill?"

"Yes, I'm sorry." She straightens her gaze to look at him.

Altaïr scratches the side of his head, combing the short locks backwards. "I was twelve or thirteen at that time, the same rank as you too. My target was a deceitful travelling merchant, and he was last seen in the road between Masyaf and Jerusalem. I rode a horse to catch up with him - and when I did, he wasn't alone.

"Merchants usually hire mercenaries to guard them, and he had three. I warned them to give the merchant to me, but they refused, so I had to kill them." He tries to remember more details, but it has been so long, and he has killed so many that he forgets which is which.

"Did you hesitate?" She asks

"No, it was either me or them." He replies. "I understand it must be difficult to take life for the first time. You weren't brought up in the creed, unlike me, I grew up with an assassin as a father."

"How was it?" She asks quietly.

"Growing up?"

She nods.

"A lot of training and scolding." He smiles a bit, remembering tiny bits of time when he trained with a wooden sword, mimicking his father's movements. "He was highly skilled and respected, and the sons of the assassins were naturally inducted into the Brotherhood. I always knew I'd be an assassin. It's a noble way of living."

She looks unsure when she asks the next question, "Your father - how did he -?"

"Killed." He cuts her off immediately.

"I'm sorry - I didn't mean -"

He raises his hand to stop her. "There's no need to apologize. You've told me of your life in the mill, it is only fair if I told you of mine." He clears his throat, sensing another cough coming. "Besides, this is more enjoyable than sleeping."

From this side, he can already see the list of questions she is making in her mind. She is hesitating, that is understandable, prying on someone's life is not something that he usually does. But what kind of a person he is if he does not know her well? For all he knows, she could have killed him in his sleep.

"The army of Salah Al-Din laid siege on Masyaf about ten years ago. My father, Umar, was tasked with giving a warning threat to their leader. But he was noticed by the general, so he had to kill him in self-defense." Altaïr starts. The memory replays itself as it has done so million times before. "They agreed to leave Masyaf in exchange of his life."

Ambras eyes widen in terror, but she says nothing.

"My father gave his life to save Masyaf, so I was brought up with his teachings. Al-Mualim took me in that may explain why he seems so fond of me." He reaches out a hand to her, and she takes gently. "Many assassins have lost their parents. Abbas and Malik have. Rauf was an orphan before he became an assassin. Not many of us comes from a complete or happy family, but does that really matter? Happiness is a short-lived emotion. You can find it anywhere."

She strokes the stub of his ring finger, something that she seems to take joy from. "What of your mother?"

"She died giving birth to me."

"I'm sorry."

He scoffs, "Again with the apology." It earns an honest laughter from her. The corners of her lips tug upwards, and her face lights up as she smiles.

"What of your name?" She asks once the laughter ceases.

"Altaïr Ibn Umar should have been the name I was given at birth," he replies, "but the Brotherhood regarded me as Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad."

She looks confused, "But -"

"Son of No One, yes." He continues. "When the sons of the assassins were born, we were given names in accordance to our fathers'. My father's name in the Brotherhood was Umar Ibn La'Ahad, thus it passed down to me. Same as Malik and Kadar. Malik As-Sayf and Kadar As-Sayf. Their father was also an As-Sayf. Do you understand now?"

"But why?" She asks.

"A name is a prayer, is it not?" He returns the question. "Won't you like to be called with strong and honorable title?"

She frowns deeper, "I don't know - but, Altaïr, your name literally means Son of No One."

He chuckles at her sudden abruptness, "It is not without reason. Neither me nor my father knew much of our fathers. He was an assassin, first and foremost. I understand how awful it seems to you, but I am not complaining." He muffles a cough by the palm of his hand. "Do you have a last name?" He asks as the cough fades.

"No." She replies. "It's more than enough to be able to retain one name. The slavers liked to give disgusting nicknames whenever they pleased."

"Ah, I'm sorry." He mutters.

"It is alright. The slaves usually came up with names for the newborns, unless the master decided to change it, their names stay for life." She is playing with a rogue thread from the pillow, pulling against it, but not yet tugging it from the fabric. "What of Al-Mu'alim's name?"

"That," he points at her, "is not something you should ever ask."

"Is it rude to do so?"

"Disrespectful, yes. His name doesn't matter - he is the Grand Mentor of us all."

"I'm sorry." She mutters.

He hums idly, caresses her hand, bringing her attention back to him. "It's been more than a year since you live here. Do you find it to your liking?"

She smiles genuinely, "It's more than everything I can ever ask for, Altaïr." She returns to caressing the stub of his ring finger again. "You've been very kind to me. This," she gestures to their joined hands, "A servant is not supposed to touch the master unless its necessary."

He chuckles, "It's necessary to build your trust to me. You refrained from looking at me like I could kill you willingly."

"With all due respect, you actually can."

"You wont be a fair opponent." He smiles briefly at her. Face soon contorts into seriousness. "Tell me, Ambra, what kind of future do you seek?"

She looks at him softly, "You know I'd like to kill J-Jaqq. Other than that, I havent thought much. I can live like this forever.”

"Dont you wish to be married?"

She laughs abruptly, shaking her head in response. "No no, Altaïr, I cant imagine myself doing that." Her laughter dies down quickly, and she looks at him, "My duty to you and the Brotherhood comes first, Altaïr."

"You can say that for now, but what about in ten years or so? We'd wake up in the same routine, see the same face for what seems to be eternity I have no problem with it, in fact, I prefer to do so but you have options." He moves his hand as he speaks, "I never expected to have a servant, or to be responsible for someones life other than mine. The future I had in mind was to live and die for the Brotherhood. That is it. But your life is yours, Ambra. You might want to have a family, have children to be raised as assassins, to continue the tradition from generation to generation. You might want to move out of the fortress and live in Masyaf, it is permitted to do so. My point is," he sighs, "I will not force you to lead the same life as mine."

If she looks confused before, she looks even more confused by now. "But I'm your servant."

"I know, which is why I'm asking you if you have plans for your future."

She frowns, looks a bit hurt at the question. "Can I choose to keep serving you?"

"You'd be bored in less than ten years, Im sure of that."

"But I can't abandon my duty to you." She looks at him, brows furrowing, "If I were to spend years doing the same routines, it will be the best life I'd ever live in."

Altaïr observes her, finding no lies nor hesitation in her answer. But he is the one who hesitates. In ten years or so, their future may be different. She may want to get married even right now he is contemplating on who would likely be asking for her hand to him. Or what if she does not want to be married, that she will be dependent on him, despite him conditioning her many times to be independent?

"Plan changes over time." He finally says. "Whenever you wish to be liberated from me, I'll give you your freedom."

He must have said something wrong, as she suddenly tightens her grip on his hand. Her bottom lip is trembling as she speaks, "Please dont it'll be the same as throwing me out."

Now it is his turn to be confused, "But you'll have no restriction to your life. You can choose your path wherever it leads you to."

She looks at him pleadingly, "Please dont do it."

Ambra he pauses as she bring up his hand to her face, holding it by her cheek. She looks pained as she speaks.

"I've lost too many people. I can't lose you too - I - I dont wish to be liberated from you." Her voice is halted. Her eyes are closed tightly. "It's not my place to ask you, but this is what I want. I chose to serve you, Altaïr, and I'm content with it. I dont mind serving your family as well, but please dont liberate me."

He holds the side of her face. The simple action sends her jumping, whole body tensing. "There is no future with me." He speaks quietly.

"It is a future for me." She replies, cheeks the same shade of her sash. "If this is because of my slow progress, I apologize, Altaïr. I promise I'll try to be a better servant and student I will -"

"Hush, no, not that, no." he mutters, caressing her warm cheek. "I'm responsible for you, Ambra, I -" he takes a deep breath. What are you doing? He looks at her pained expression, forcing a smile to make her feel a bit relaxed, yet it does not work. How does one say that one does not wish to hold your fate in my hands?

Her emerald eyes are wet with the incoming tears, and she is looking at him. He can feel her heartbeat in her neck, the tension as she swallows dryly, the puff of breath and he would be lying if he does not find her presence here fulfilling.

"Whenever you wish for freedom, do tell me." He finally speaks. "In the meantime, try not to be bored taking care of me."

She chokes on her laughter, nodding in his hand. He finds her caressing the stub of his ring finger again, and for once he admits, the action brings peace to him too.


	17. Chapter 17

Good news finally arrives in the fortress of Masyaf.

The news of Tholeb, Hamzah, and Sofyans arrival spreads throughout the fortress long before the three of them reach the outskirts of Masyaf. Their last message was sent from Aleppo, informing that they were heading home. It was received a week ago, and when they arrive today, the whole fortress is more than happy to greet.

Hamzah walks with a slight limp now, a bit hunched over. Sofyan keeps a protective hold around his shoulder, manages to crack a joke now and then that earns a protest from Hamzah, as laughing hurts him so. Tholeb has grown his facial hair, now looking more mature than before. When he sees Altaïr, he bows down respectfully, before handing him something long wrapped in burlap.

The present now rests on the table of his room. It is the infamous curved sword, or shamshir. The scabbard is of leather, dark brown and thick. The dark metal hilt is strengthen with leather for tight grip. There is no fancy decoration, but the shape of the pommel and the carving along the cross guard are beautiful to him. He recalls what Tholeb said, that he took it as a spoil of war from the bandit leader. How admirable - he had taken initiative to travel from Damascus to Acre to kill the Templars, then to Aleppo to get rid of the bandits. With that achievement, he may as well be elevated earlier.

When it is lunchtime, Altaïr finds relief in seeing all of his students sitting in the same table, catching up in the months they have been separated. Sofyan tells of how he stubbornly asked for a healer to the rafiq, despite the slim chances for Hamzah to survive the arrow wound. He took the chances himself and tended to the wound on his own, stifling Hamzahs scream on the pillow.

"I owed a pillow to the rafiq." Hamzah elaborates with a smile.

"And who has to pay for that, I wonder. "Tholeb replies.

Ambra tells of her first assassination missions, earning an enthusiastic congratulatory from the brethren. She blushes at the remarks, shyly tells them of how she killed her targets, and how nauseating the smell of blood was to her. Altaïr chuckles deeply, cannot help but imagine her throwing up over the targets dead body. That will either be shameful or hilarious.

Kadar suddenly approaches the table, rendering silence to the occupants. "Altaïr, Malik said he, Abbas, and Rauf will be waiting by the western canyon."

Ah, Altaïr smirks, knowing exactly what it means. "Are they already there?"

"Well, they just left." Kadar points at the door, where the tail of Abbas tunic just leaves the room. "Are we going to learn how to swim?"

"In the cold?" Ambra adds all of the sudden.

Altaïr waves the remarks away, "You'll soon see. For now, fill your stomach and take a rest. Ambra," the female student perks up at the call, "fetch our kaftans in the room, would you?" he hands her the key to the room, which she takes with a nod.

Obediently, she stands up and leaves the dining hall. Kadar has returned to his own table, confusion is etched on his face, so it is on his brethrens faces. Tholeb leans over the table, "Is it what I think it is?"

Altaïr hushes as the student grins. "You've passed this before, but you're welcome to watch. It's entertaining each year."

It always amazes him how the lower ranked students are different to the higher ranked. They are instructed to follow Altaïr, those below the fourth rank. The tension in the air is heightened as Altaïr leads the small group of students out of the fortress gate.

Ambra is walking beside him, both hands hugging his and her kaftans. Confusion is etched on her face, so it is on the faces of all students, but neither dares to voice their question. The tension rises as they finally reach the western canyon.

There is a section overlooking the river below where the edge juts out a bit. Malik and Abbas are already gathering nearby a makeshift campfire. The former is wet from top to toe, wringing water from his hood, and shivering from the cold. Rauf is making another campfire. Maliks students are standing by Rauf, whispering against each other with worry.

"How is it?" Altaïr asks, motioning the students to form a line next to Maliks students.

Abbas scoffs, "Doable, at least the water is not frozen."

Malik chuckles, "I'm afraid my students are not easily swayed by my demonstration alone." He turns to where his students are standing by, quietly discussing the possibility of surviving from the leap. "Hey! One of you better start leaping or I'll shove you down myself! Kadar, you know better than that!"

The youngest As-Sayf groans as he heads towards the jutting edge. Altaïr walks towards him, the group of students that follows him lets out hushed whispers. Even Ambra looks lost and terrified.

Altaïr stands beside Kadar, hearing him breathing loudly against the wind. "Bend your knees then spread your arms as you leap forward. Keep your knees straight during the drop. Since it's water, tuck your arms to your chest to minimize the impact. If you're seeing the sky as you fall, be prepared for an aching back." Altaïr says.

Kadar huffs, "I'll try..."

"No, you won't." Altaïr turns the student around, now his back is facing the edge. "Arms to your chest and straighten your legs," he orders, and Kadar follows. Altaïr holds the front of Kadar's tunic, then backs him away slowly, closer to the edge. Kadar automatically tenses upon losing the ground by his heels, but Altaïr pushes him until he is leaning backwards, held only by Altaïr's grip. "Take a deep breath and try to keep yourself steady."

Kadar lets out an audible gasp as Altaïr lets go of his grip. Altaïr watches as Kadar falls into the water, parting the surface with his upper back first before the rest his limbs follow. Shortly, the student resurfaces, arms flailing as he makes his way to the edge.

Malik appears beside Altaïr, chuckling, "That's one way to do it." He turns to his students, "Rahim, Bilal, Utsman, you're next."

Kadar makes his way up through the manmade path, shivering. Altaïr stands in front of Bilal, grasping the front of the student's tunic just as he did to Kadar before. Bilal glances at his brethren, all that are in the same position as him, by the edge of the canyon, tunics held by Malik and Abbas. When the three mentors let the grips go, they fall backwards into the cold water below.

"Ambra," Altaïr calls, motioning her to come closer. She has a horrified look in her face, even more so Rauf takes the kaftans from her hands, all while smiling encouragingly. Despite the silent push, she hesitates as she walks towards Altaïr. He positions her in the same place as the other, while Malik and Abbas already have their hold on two other students. "Can you swim?" He asks.

"No." Her reply comes weakly.

"Don't panic and keep your arms steady. You'll float on your own." Altaïr holds the collar of her tunic and hood, backing her slowly to the edge. Her eyes widen in fear. "Do you trust me?"

She looks at him, "Yes."

When Altaïr shoves her back, she falls with the two other students. He watches her back parting the water, body submerged into the depth, until she finally resurfaces. She kicks and wades through to the edge. Well, at least she survives.

After all of the students receive their turn to be shoved backwards off of the edge of the canyon, they are now tasked to be able to fall on their own. Either back first or front first, though it will hurt less with the back in case they miss the landing. Ambra has teamed up with Kadar and Utsman, now they are leaping backwards together. Abbas makes another campfire so they all won't die of cold, earning an appreciative sigh from the students. Malik, on the other hand, has discarded his outer tunic and hood, now wearing a kaftan, with his effects over it.

Altaïr stands on the side by Rauf, observing each one of them. How their tensed body language has changed into a fluid one, how they willingly leap on their own, despite the cold water and the cold air that nips immediately. He watches some of the students failing, falling flat on their backs, but they return with a grin on their faces for acknowledging their mistake. Those who have perfected their leap are giving hints on what to do.

He watches as Ambra and Kadar stand on the edge, facing forward, and he tenses slightly. Leaping forward is actually more difficult than backwards. The factor of fear of heights can cause hesitation - and he is correct before he can finish the train of thought. While Kadar manages to do a flip and enters the water with his upper back first, Ambra falls legs first, which is alright, actually. But if it was hay bale beneath them, she'd break both legs.

The training goes on until Rauf deems it enough. Ever so attentive, he shows worry for the shivering students, something that goes unnoticed by either Altaïr, Malik, or Abbas. He is correct. By now, the students are a wet shivering mess around the campfire, most have lowered their hoods and put on a kaftan over themselves. Ambra is talking to Kadar about their last leap, in which she managed to do a flip - finally. So far, there are two incidents in which the students injure themselves upon entering the water, nothing major, just a painful back or aching front.

Altaïr walks to the edge, standing in front of the students, and silence immediately falls upon them. "Listen up," he calls for their attention, voice booming against the wind, "those who have perfected their leap - congratulation. Your faith is strong and you do not fear death. Those who still hesitate - have faith in yourselves. We'll soon be practicing this, but there will be no water below."

The students murmur and glance at each other in confusion.

"Silence!" He continues, silencing them. "You live and die for the Brotherhood. Or have you forgotten about it?"

No murmur nor a glance. Even Ambra lowers her head.

"We'll continue tomorrow. But before that, Malik, Abbas, Rauf," he calls forth the three other instructors who are standing on the side. They glance at each other before approaching him. "Let us demonstrate how faith in your skills can help you survive."

The three of them head towards the edge, front facing the water. They keep their distance from each other, and from Altaïr. He takes a deep breath, feeling how steady his heartbeat is, not a flash of fear. He then leaps forward, at the same time as the others. Hands to the sides as he does a flip, then coldness envelops him. A perfect landing. Under the water, he briefly sees the white figures of his brethren, until he resurfaces. Feet and hands immediately kicking to swim to the edge.

"There goes my kaftan," Malik mutters as they make their way up to the canyon, complaining of the wet kaftan he is wearing.

"Any other day and you'll say farewell to your life." Abbas replies, wiping water from his beard.

Malik chuckles in response, "Be glad that it is water, Abbas, you get to bathe early."

"Hush, both of you. They can hear us." Rauf stops them before another exchange of remark.

"Oh lighten up, Rauf." Malik replies.

"Set him on fire, he'll light up nicely." Abbas mutters.

Altaïr sighs in annoyance at his brethrens banters. He walks ahead to the top of the canyon where he students are waiting around the campfire, shivering from the cold. "Head back to the fortress. You are dismissed." He informs loudly.

The students hastily make their way back to the fortress, longing for warmth to soothe their frostbitten skin. Ambra approaches Altaïr, handing him his kaftan. She is shivering in hers, cheeks and nose red from the cold, and lips slightly pale.

"No, you wear that, Ambra." He says, starting to walk to the fortress.

"As much as I want to, I'll end up dragging it behind me." She replies.

"Then tie the end." He says curtly, glancing at her to make sure she wears it over herself.

She lets out a huff of icy smoke before wrapping the kaftan over herself. The end is pooling around her feet, and she lifts it up to tuck it in her belt. The sleeves drown her arms. Altaïr pauses, gaze lingering as she pulls the front of his kaftan tighter to her chest, trying to cover the wet tunics that have molded themselves to the shape of her breasts. His gaze flicks up to her face.

"Your leap of faith is not too bad. There is still room for improvement - the fear of height for one." He says, silently enjoying her struggle to keep her hands from drowning in the sleeves of his kaftan.

"It's difficult." She sighs.

"Do you fear death?"

"Well, yes..." She replies. "Don't you?"

He shrugs, "Sometimes - now that I have you, I fear of what may come after my death. Where would you end up, what awaits me in the afterlife." He glances at her, "but have no worries. I'm certain Al-Mu'alim will take care of you. As to what awaits me in death, I'm ready to accept it."

She chuckles nervously, "It sounds like you're ready to die."

"As should you." He replies. "Death is a part of this life - I've told you many times. Unless you have business to attend to before death, you will never be peaceful with how or when it will come for you."

"I do have business to attend to, Altaïr." She replies lowly.

"Be at ease, Ambra. Should you pass first - and I pray that you won't - I'll tend to your business immediately."

Her eyes widen in disbelief at his words, and he chuckles at it, earning a scowl from her. "That's...reassuring."

After a quick bath and an early dinner, earned by pressing on the cooks for lunch leftovers, Altaïr finds himself relaxing in front of the brazier of his room. He is cleaning his weapons and leather effects, making a plan to sharpen his blades as well. While Ambra is sitting on the chair, pressing her frostbitten cheek against the tabletop. She sits with legs crossed on the chair, bundled up in both her and Altaïr's kaftans, with both hands tuck inside the sleeves.

"This cold really won't get away, won't it?" He hears her muttering.

"By all means, sit on the other side. It's closer to the fire." He replies, not looking up at her from the belt he is cleaning.

She shuffles on the chair, hesitating, but not moving. "That would mean stepping down from this bundle of warmth."

"You have two kaftans on."

She huffs, "The floor is cold, Altaïr."

"Then climb over the table. I don't mind." He chuckles.

She laughs at the idea, earning a glance from him. He can imagine it, her trying to climb over the table without knocking over anything, and her protesting groan if she accidentally knocks over a cup. She lifts her cheek from the table and leans backwards on the chair, stretching her arms up. The sleeves of the kaftans fall down to her upper arms until she puts down her arms again. "Will we practice the leap of faith again tomorrow?" She asks, folding her knees up to her chest and rests her head on them.

"Possibly, yes. But not in the canyon. We'll try jumping from the tower." His reply earn a surprised glare from her, and he offers a calm smile. "Rest assure, you won't die easily."

"What's under the tower?" She asks.

"That, I cannot say."

"Has someone died from it?"

He shrugs, "Not yet - but many has returned heavily injured."

She lets out a sigh before standing up from the chair, quickly making her way to the warm carpet. He glances to see her sitting on her side, right behind him, possibly propped up against a heap of pillows.

"How are your fingers?" He asks, placing down the belt and now picking up his hidden blade to be sharpened.

"Much better, though" She huffs, annoyed. He stops to look at her, and she shows him her hands. The fingers are slightly trembling - possibly due to hours of standing in the cold. "May I take a rest for a while?"

"By all means do what you like. We're done for today. Shall we do the nightly discussion right now or do you prefer to wait as usual?" He asks, already returning to his hidden blade. The edges are still sharp, but the tip is not as sharp as usual. He may have to take it to the blacksmith.

"Is it alright to do the discussion right now?" She responds.

"We have the time." He places down the hidden blade, then turns around to look at her. "Do you have questions about anything?"

She hums, pursing her lips and slightly frowning while thinking. "What is the point of the training today? I mean, leap of faith, why should we learn about it? Isn't it as same as jumping from extreme height into the water?"

Oh she is really going to be surprised tomorrow, he thinks, chuckling at her naivety. "You will see tomorrow. I can say that leap of faith tests how much faith you have, either in yourself or in Allah or in the possibility of survival. Why we practice it, well, to abolish hesitation."

She shifts to turn to him, "But falling to death seems to be a painful and slow way of dying."

"Not falling to death, Ambra," he shakes his head, "surviving the fall. That is why we need the practice. Say I throw you off the canyon and you fail miserably on the way down. If you have no knowledge whatsoever about the correct falling posture, even when there's water below, you'd still be injured from the impact." He replies, "You haven't met them yet, but there are enemies who are keen on throwing us off the roof, or any high places they can find. When they do, you'll be prepared."

"Have you met them?"

"Yes - which is why this training is important." He continues, "There are many tricks that you haven't learned yet. I haven't even taught you how to gather food when you're far from cities."

"Do you mean like hunting? We get to learn about that?" She beams up.

"Only a bit. We'll try to cover it once winter ends." He smiles at her enthusiasm. "Have you any other questions?"

"Oh -" she sits up, straightening her legs, "what is the blade on the table?"

"The shamshir?"

"Yes, what is it?" She asks, voice filled with curiosity.

He stands up to fetch the said blade from the table, "It's a curved sword, basically. You've seen the other mentors wielding it, have you?"

"Yes, but theirs are nothing like this." She replies, eyes following him as he returns in front of her.

Altaïr unsheathes the shamshir, holding the blade flatly on his palms for her to see clearly. "Their curved swords are a modification of the traditional Syrian sword, and given only to the highest ranking assassin. Aside from me, Malik, Rauf, and Abbas, the other mentors are all Master Assassins. They've served the Brotherhood longer than us, even trained us when we first started, thus they are granted the title and the sword."

"What about yours?" Ambra asks.

"Mine was given when I reached the eighth rank. Here, hold this." He hands her the shamshir, which she accepts with wide eyes and a grin. He takes his own sword from the floor then unsheathes it. "Sleeker and stronger than regular sword - even yours, Ambra."

Her eyes are darting from the shamshir to his sword, confused on which one to look first.

"Here, let's trade." He takes the shamshir from her hand and gives her his sword.

She holds his sword in one hand, raising it slightly to test it. She lets out a gasp, "Oh my... It's really light."

"And balanced, come here." He stands up, motioning her to do so as well.

She hesitates and opts to pout, "Should we?"

He scoffs, despite enjoying that defeated look on her face at the possible notion of training again. He takes her by the upper arm, pulling her up, and she sighs as she lets herself up. "Just for a while, Ambra. Take off the kaftans."

She shrugs off his kaftan, letting it fall to the carpet. Her own kaftan follows, "Should I be using your sword or -"

"Use mine for now. I'd like to test this shamshir." He walks to the floor, right in front of the door where it is much clearer from furniture. Ambra follows him, and he notices her toes curling from the cold, and the front of her tunic - the peaks are visible - but he averts his gaze to her face.

He lifts the shamshir up, readying his usual attack stance, and she mimics him. There is something...almost adorable in the way she is holding his sword. He does not know what, but seeing her wielding his favorite weapon, with her messily tied hair, the lack of outer tunic and sash over her body - it is almost intimate. Her brows are knit together, emerald eyes looking at him and she brings his sword up, clenching the handle tightly in both hands.

"Ready?" He asks, voice unfaltering despite his softened gaze.

"Ready." She replies, and he immediately lunges to attack.

She deflects quickly, looking a bit taken aback by her own speed. He smirks at her reaction as she deflects his attack and pushes the sword away. "Light, isn't it?" He asks, readying his stance again.

"Yes, very light. No wonder you're so fast." She replies, but hastily adds, "I don't mean you're fast because the sword is light - I mean, you're very agile, and the sword helps -"

He chuckles at her attempt to fix her words, "Never mind about that." He lunges again.

She deflects once, twice as he strikes the second time, and thrice for the third time. Soon she is the one attacking him, and he is deflecting each of her attacks. The shamshir is proven to be very effective in deflecting - his sword in her hand glides easily along the curved edge, and he proves it to be easier to do combination attacks with such advantage.

Ambra's hair comes undone sometime in the spar. The thick locks cascade down her shoulders and back, swaying with each movement that she makes, and he is careful not to accidentally cut them. His body moves fluidly in their small dance, but his mind is elsewhere. She smells of earth, the smell of the heap of pillows in the corner, and he inhales sharply whenever they are too close. The expression she makes when their swords clash in mid-air, the furrows of her brows, the grunting noise that she lets out - the fact that he can see the peak of her breasts, and the way his sword is clenched in her hand –

The next attack that she gives, he deflects with enough force to throw her hand to the side. Immediately, he closes the distance between them, pulling her head to him with one hand, and with a much needed action, he kisses her. She is taken aback, clearly, but he has no intention to tell her beforehand. He needs this. That is all he knows, but why? Does not matter why, all he knows is his heart beats rapidly inside his chest, and one of his hands is tangled with her hair, and his lips are set on fire.

She gasps for air between kisses, bringing her hand up to his shoulder. He drops the shamshir on the floor, using his free hand to hold her around the back, pulling her to him closer. She whimpers - it is delicious to hear her composure breaks - and he grunts in reply, dragging a kiss after another one. Somewhere she drops his sword, it clangs against the stone floor, and she brings up her hand to his neck.

He must have pushed her backwards, because his hand makes contact with the stone wall. He uses it to his advantage. Both of his hands moves lower past her bottom - earning a small moan from her - then he hoists her up by the upper thighs. He lifts her up easily, pinning her back to the stone wall, as his hands part her thighs and set them by his sides. The closer distance, and herself pinned against the wall and his waist, with herself positioned almost at the same height as him, letting him kiss her deeper. She gasps again, hands are gliding between the back of his head and his shoulders. Her cold fingertips brush against his warm neck.

"Altaïr..." she sighs between kisses.

How does a simple call of name let him be overwhelmed?

He slows down the kiss, gliding downwards to capture her swollen bottom lip and sucking it gently. She yelps, a mixture of sighing and moaning, then a grunt as he offers a small bite and sucks it again. Her breathing is labored, or is it his? He does not know. All that he knows is he needs to hear her voice again, or a broken composure, or a sigh of relief.

He peppers small kisses to her lips, or is it her who does so? Her fingers are massaging the back of his head, sending jolts of pleasure down his spine every time she tugs slightly at his hair. Her other hand is holding the side of his face, gliding here and there from the cheek to the jaw, and it feeds his need for her. His own hands have not been idle. One holds the back of her head, holding her firmly in place by the base of her hair. His other hand has moved lower to hold her thigh. She has changed so much - he can feel the tension of her thigh muscle from all the training. He squeezes gently and she shudders, gasping against his lips. He smirks in response.

He trails his hand upwards to her bottom, and she takes a sharp intake of breathy moan against his lips that soon turns into a small fit of moaning as he kneads gently. He trails upwards again to her waist, feeling the curve of her figure, the soft roll of her stomach - and she squirms, practically grinding against the front of his tunic. How warm she is to touch.

He needs her someplace else. The stone wall is too cold and hard against her back. His hands trail down to her thighs again, lifting her up higher, and she instantly locks her legs together behind his back. He chuckles against their soft kisses, mostly does by her, as she holds his head in place to grace him with her pouty lips. He moves to the carpet quickly, legs almost caught up in the blanket, but he finally manages to lie them down carefully.

The kiss continues. He has not noticed the tightening in his trousers until he lies down on top of her. The fabric is rough against his manhood, straining, but not yet uncomfortable. This is too far, you idiot, he reminds himself. Yet he cannot back away - not when her hazy green eyes are fluttering close as his hands glide upwards from her thighs to her waist to knead on the soft muscle there, not when his mind keeps replaying her movement with his sword, not when her soft lips are molded against his.

"Altaïr -" she calls again, but immediately silenced by him, and her voice turns into a gasping moan as his tongue bides entry into her mouth. He grunts at her taste, at the way her tongue flicks against his in automatic response, at the low moaning she emits. His hand trails under her tunic to grip onto her waist and she bucks upwards in response.

When he pulls away, giving her a chance to breathe, she whimpers. "Ambra..." He calls, voice barely audible. He raises his head slightly from her, observing the damage he has done. Her gaze is filled with something other than gentleness - sultry, if he can call it that, and he almost believes this is just his imagination. But the reality kicks in with how loud her heartbeat is against his chest.

She licks her shaky lips, and he leans down to capture them again. One hand moving to hold her hand down, as he enjoys the clench in her fist that only encourages him to do more. She is squirming as his hand kneads her waist, muffling a giggle against his lips. He chuckles, slowing down the kiss and his assault under her tunic, to take in the feel as she caresses his stubbled jaw.

As much as he'd like to say something, he does not want to ruin the moment.

He is about to lean into the kiss deeper than before - when he is interrupted. A knocking is heard from the door. He pulls away from her quickly, annoyed at whoever outside his room, and he contemplates whether to bark at them or greet them.

For a moment, there is no sound from the door. Whoever it is, he hopes it is not important. He drops his forehead to Ambras, intending to continue the moment, however abrupt it is.

Ambra swallows from under him, face a deep shade of red, with lips swollen and pink from their session. Altaïr looks at her, taking in the aftermath of what he has done. He is looking for signs of regret or fear in her eyes. But he only finds the usual gentle gaze she always holds. He leans down slightly, almost not believing as she raises her head a bit to meet his lips halfway.

The knocking startles both of them, and he pulls back, cursing under his panting breath, "Allah yakhthek (may Allah take your soul) -"

Ambra chuckles, fingers caressing his own from their joined hands. "Please dont kill them, Altaïr."

"I'm about to if -" the knocking cuts him off, and he growls, annoyed. He stands up and takes two long strides to get it.

When he opens the door, the face of Rauf is what he sees. The instructor seems surprised to see him - possibly because he has a death glare and his hair is a mess. "I seem to have come at an unpleasant moment." Rauf says hesitantly.

"The moment has passed. May I help you with something, Rauf?" Altaïr asks, leaning against the door frame, blocking Raufs view of his room.

"Yes, actually. Al-Mualim is calling in all instructors for a meeting."

And at a very precise timing, Altaïr thinks sarcastically. He sighs heavily, "Whats the occasion?"

"I'm not sure." Rauf replies, eyes observing Altaïr. "If... I have interrupted something, I deeply apologize."

Altaïr raises a brow at his words, but chooses not to comment. "I'll see you in the castle then."

Rauf nods and takes his leave. Altaïr waits until he disappears in the staircase before closing returning to his room.

Altaïr locks the door behind him, sighing. Now what?

At least Ambra looks calmer than him, albeit blushing deeply. She is picking up the shamshir and his sword from the floor. He is at loss for words. Surely he cannot just return to the carpet and resume what they did before, can he?

Sure he can - no, he chases the thought away. He heads to the wardrobe to get ready. His heartbeat is not yet calmed down, though his manhood has stopped straining against his trousers. He rummages through the wardrobe to take out a new outer tunic.

"Where are you going?" Ambra asks from the carpet, as she sheathes his sword into the scabbard.

"Al-Mualim. He replies curtly, sliding on his outer tunic. He clears his throat, glancing at her, "Rauf came by to inform me. There will be a meeting in the castle."

She cocks her head to the side unconsciously, as if thinking, "A meeting?"

"Yes," he puts on his sash, then closes the wardrobe. His effects are lying on the floor in front of the brazier, right where he last left them to dry. Ambra seems to take notice of what he intends to do, and she immediately stands up to help.

Should he say something? He wonders as he puts on his belt, while she is already holding his armbraces in her hands. His eyes flick from the front of her tunic to her face, finding the blush forever adorns her cheeks, and the lips are begging to be kissed what is wrong with me?

He slides on his left armbrace, but she has taken initiative to secure the straps. The silence falls heavily on them. His mind is elsewhere again, and it irks him. Despite his attempt to stave off his sexual needs, he keeps finding her in the back of his head. Each movement she makes turns into a twisted version of sensuality that does not suit her, yet he keeps finding her there, lingering in the back of his mind, waiting to be called forward to help his insatiable needs.

Now with her strapping on his right armbrace, he wonders about their action earlier. What urges him to do so? Has he fallen into temptation just like what his brethren feel upon the courtesans? What triggers such reaction out of him?

Ownership?

Such a harsh word, he sighs audibly, now sliding on his hood. But he hates to admit that he enjoys seeing her with his belonging. His kaftan, his sword he crushes the thought of her in his tunic. You've fallen too deep in this, you idiot, she does not need another lustful master to take advantage of her body   
But is it taking advantage if she is also enjoying herself?

He slides on his holster and straps it, eyes glancing at Ambra. This is permitted, he reminds himself, we are permitted to each other. This is their second year living in the same room together, sooner or later theyd feel an attraction to each other. But to defile her...

"You're free to take a rest for today. We'll pick up from where we left off when I return." He says as his holster has been strapped securely.

"Uhm..." She holds back a shy smile.

"Our discussion, I mean."

"Oh, yes, the shamshir." She replies quickly.

"Yes - it is very effective actually. The curve really helps bending the attack with less force, though it's slightly heavier than my sword, but it's balanced enough." He takes his sheathed sword and straps it to his belt. The shamshir is left on the carpet. "How about this. Once you have mastered the art of swordfight, I'll give it to you."

She breaks into a wide grin, "Really?"

"I favor my own sword. It'll be a waste if something this beautiful is kept in the wardrobe." He replies, noting her smile.

"Then Ill make sure to earn it." She says.  
He nods, Lock the door while I'm away."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of NSFW.

Ambra sighs in relief after Altaïr takes his leave to the castle. Slumping down on the chair, she hugs her knees, trying to control the blush that is creeping up her cheeks again. He did it again, she bites her bottom lip. Why is she reacting this way?

Her mind replays the action on and on. She can still taste his saliva, the slightly chapped lips of his, his mustache tickling her lips, the press of his nose, and that vertical scar over his lips. The sound he let out, the grunting and chuckling, each take of breath, the way he called her name - oh Allah, she rocks herself on the chair. Her skin feels ablaze, and down below, she feels a knot tightening itself in her abdomen, almost like a newly formed cramping. She huffs violently.

I need air, she shudders. The room smells heavily like Altaïr, and it makes her dizzy, almost overwhelming, and she fears she cannot act naturally. Do not fall for your master, do not fall for your master, she reminds herself, picking up her kaftan from the carpet. Altaïr's kaftan lies messily on the carpet. She takes it, cursing at how it smells exactly like him, and how the smell now lingers on her clothes. She folds it neatly and places it on the table.

It is alright for her to leave now, right? Perhaps the balcony would be the best option to get some air, or the library, or -

The garden. If anyone knows what to do in this situation, it will be the courtesan.

Ambra wraps the kaftan tighter around herself, then takes her leave from the room. She locks the door behind her, carrying the key in her hand, then quickly, she makes her exit from the west tower.

The castle is silent, spare for the meeting on the second floor, where Al-Mualims quarter is. Ambra can hear the Grand Mentors voice, calm and authoritative, as he is addressing an issue. But she does not linger too long to hear more. She pushes the gardens gate open, then squeezes herself in swiftly. The cold breeze greets her.

The courtesans are sitting on the carpet in the left side of the garden, wrapping themselves in thick kaftans, while enjoying the warmth from the braziers. The first to notice Ambra's presence is Talia. The older courtesan immediately stands up, "Ambra? Come here, darling, come here."

Ambra runs to her, immediately falls into her embrace. She smells of honey and herbs, the same smell from the incense.

Talia pulls away to look at her. Concern is on her face. "What are you doing here? At night, might I add." She strokes her hair, "Why are you not wearing your hood - oh my, did something happen?"

She brings her to sit down in the corner, where the other courtesans are looking at her, all worried and curious of what happens. Talia frowns, such beautiful face contorts into a mask of almost anger, as if she knows someone is doing something horribly wrong.

"I need to talk with you. With all of you, actually, but please let it be among us." Ambra starts, clenching Talia's hands in hers.

"Of course, darling. What's the matter? Is it Altaïr?" Talia asks.

"What did he do?" Lina scoots closer to Ambra, eyes widen in terror.

"It's..." Ambra sighs. How do I say this? "I feel weird."

"Are you pregnant?" Nisa chimes in.

Talias jaw drops, grips tighten all of the sudden, "If that assassin impregnates you -"

"No! No! I'm without a child! We haven't -" Ambra assures her. But Talias gaze does not soften yet. "Talia," Ambra calls her pleadingly, trying to convince the courtesan to not think so lowly of Altaïr. She sighs deeply, "We kissed."

"Oh!" the courtesans exclaim almost at the same time.

Yet Talia is unfazed. "I take it you don't like it?"

Ambra feels the blush creeping up her cheeks again, "I don't know, it was enjoyable, but -" she shakes her head, dropping her gaze to the carpet. "It is his right to do whatever he wishes with me, that I know, and I should not think too much of whatever he does. But I'd be lying..." she looks up at Talia, "I shouldn't enjoy it that much, yet I did."

"Darling," Talia calls softly. She raises a hand to stroke Ambra's head. "Tell me about it. Did he reject you or did he want more?"

Ambra shrugs, unsure, "We stopped because he was called to Al-Mualim's quarter. He didn't say anything, actually, we were training before he kissed me."

Zainab rolls her eyes, "I swear, those men are turned on by weird activity."

Ambra chuckles, but it soon dies down, as she recalls all moments with Altaïr. Everything he did before, all of his actions, the training, the trusting gestures, they do not seem harmful. He does not no, he never brings her harm. In training, maybe, but outside of that, no. She looks at Talia, "The thing is, I began to feel weird afterwards. I don't understand. My body feels feverish, yet my palms are sweating, and I feel like cramping."

The older courtesan's eyebrows shoot up to her forehead, and her lips tug upwards into a small grin. "Oh darling." She wraps her arms around Ambra, all while laughing softly against her ear. "Darling, darling, darling... Your naivety never ceases to amaze me."

"What do you mean?" Ambra pulls back from the embrace, frowning.

Talia hums in amusement, "What you feel is called desire."

Ambra blinks repeatedly in disbelief. No, no, no - it is already bad that she enjoyed the kiss, she cannot make it worse by having a desire to Altaïr. Unconsciously, she puts her own hands to her cheeks, eyes widening. "I can't do that Talia, I cant!"

"Hush, darling, hush." Talia pulls on Ambra's hands, "It's a natural feeling, Ambra. In fact, it is good."

"Good?" Ambra almost glares at her. "This is not good - I mean, a servant shouldn't hold desire for the master - that is crossing the line -"

"Oh? Would you rather have him feel not desired?" Talia raises an eyebrow at her.

"True, Ambra. If you do not indulge as well, wouldn't Altaïr think that he is not desired by you?" Lina chirps in.

Ambra glances around, looking at the other courtesans. Yet each of them nods in agreement to Linas statement. "B-but..."

"Here, darling, let me explain." Talia clears her throat. "Without looking at your status as his servant, when he kissed you, did you kiss him back?"

Did I do such - oh Allah. Ambra shyly nods, remembering how she tried to copy what he did to her, how their lips molded against each other.

"Do you regret it?" Talia asks again.

Ambra bites her bottom lip, "N-no."

"Do you want him to do more?"

Ambra gasps in surprise at the memory of him pulling onto her head almost forcefully to kiss her. She cannot lie, the simple action set her heart ablaze. She was unsure of what he was going to do, but whatever he did, the caress, the sound, the kiss, she was impatient to have more. It almost feels uncontrollable. Her eyes meet Talia's, and she hesitantly nods.

"Then by all means, indulge, darling." Talia chuckles, then playfully adds. "That is if you are ready to do so. If you feel unsure or scared, tell him. We're more than happy to help his need."

Ambra sighs deeply, leaning backwards against the wall to huff a thin smoke of icy breath. The problem right now is determining whether or not she would like him to continue. Why are you like this? She asks herself, mentally kicking herself in the head for thinking indecently of her master. But what makes it worse is the flutter in her stomach, the jump in her heart, the lies she constantly have to tell herself that she is not falling for him.

There is no way he would lower himself like that - I'm just a servant, she reminds herself. What if he is to be married to another woman? It is his right, beside, who is she to have a say in this? Yet the thought of him kissing, caressing another woman why does her heart ache so much?

 

Altaïr sighs as he exits the castle. The meeting with Al-Mualim discussed a heavy topic: the Crusaders. There has been a mass movement of them heading southward to Jerusalem. It seems another war is incoming, and it might take place in the Holy Land. Masyaf needs to take precaution, in case the war spreads out to other cities, something that Al-Mualim does not want to take risk for. They do not need to repeat what happened ten years ago.

With most of the enemy stationed in the south, Al-Mualim decides to spread the Brotherhood to the north. Ahmed and Labib will be sent to Sis, entering the Armenian region, to establish a bureau there. Their students and a handful of assassins will follow as well, yet they are still required to stop by the bureau in Aleppo to gather more men stationed there.

The discussion goes on for over an hour with more technical issues. It concludes that the guards are to be trained with the assassins, and the responsibility falls to Rauf and Abbas. The higher ranked assassins, those of the sixth rank and higher, are to patrol Masyaf. Altaïr is thankful that he and Malik are not assigned with more responsibility, though it means they have to be ready to be sent out for missions.

It is in the tower that he regains his senses, and for once, he hesitates to enter his room. Can he face Ambra after what they have done? He has not had a moment to think about what to say to her. I have the urges to bed you, and destroy the trust he has gained from her? Great.

Nevertheless, this cannot go unspoken. He has grown too comfortable around her that he ignores their personal spaces. At least if he is to indulge in the activity with her, he has to wait until she is ready. In the meantime, the bathhouse is open for him to satisfy himself.

In the confine of the locked chamber of the bathhouse, he stands up facing the wall. He bites onto the towel, with the tails of his tunics tucked into his belt. He lowers his trousers just enough to let his manhood spring free. The cold air of the room nips the sensitive head, but soon he wraps his warm hand around the shaft. He hisses at the sensation.

He begins to pump slowly, grunting. He grows impatient at his own speed, soon gripping himself tighter, and he groans at the intensity. In the back of his head, the image of her is begging to be let out to help satisfying his need. The emerald greens are looking at him softly, the soft lips are calling out his name, "Altaïr, please..."

He can get used to her begging.

"Ambra..." he unconsciously mutters, feeling his manhood twitching at the wild imagination he has of her. They are on the carpet, resuming what they did before being interrupted, clothes discarded from their bodies. He pins her hands down to the pillows, manhood sliding into her she is warm and wet and each movement brings bliss to him.

He fastens his pace, earning a loud moaning from her. His name falls off her lips on and on and on again. "Please!" she begs, hips bucking upwards to match his rhythm.

He kisses her, tasting her, the same taste that still lingers in his mouth. His hips move erratically, losing what rhythm he once has and he watches her entering that blissful state. Body trembling, walls clenching, and he -

Altaïr growls as his liquid shoots out of him. His whole body shudders at the sensation, hand still pumping slowly until the last drop. In his mind, she is there, lying on her back, still pinned down by him. Womanhood wet and stained by his liquid. The look in her face, the way she bites her lower lip, and she sighs out his name before disappearing to the back of his head.

Altaïr drops his forehead to the wall, panting. The wall is stained by his liquid, now dripping slowly down the floor. This is good, right? At least he is satisfied and spent enough to sleep once in the room. He wipes his softening manhood with the towel, hissing as the material caresses the sensitive head. With the same towel, he wipes his liquid from the wall. It will be awful if either the worker or Ambra finds out about it tomorrow.

He climbs up the tower to his room on the third story. The night air is chilly, but it is quiet. A peaceful moment compared to the usual day routine. He knocks on the door of his room, waiting for Ambra to open it.

No answer. He knocks again. Did she fall asleep?

He tests the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. Honestly, Ambra, he sighs. What did he say about locking the door whenever she is alone?

He slips into his room. On the carpet, there she is, lying on her side. He is surprised that for once she is facing the wall, not the other way around. Quietly and quickly, he removes his boots by the doorway and locks the door before heading to her.

She is sleeping soundly, something he frowns upon. No assassins should be able to sleep so comfortably. She is still wearing her kaftan, but not the blanket.

He removes his effects as quietly as he can, placing them on the table where the shamshir is now lying. His eyes are glancing from Ambra to the wall, lost in his own mind, with the thoughts that are never constant. I should talk to her, one side of him says so. But to what purpose? His other side replies.

Is it not his right to do whatever he wants with her? After all, he is her master. Yet to leave some things unspoken seems too cruel. What difference does it make between him and Jaqq if he forces himself on her? Oh Allah, he shakes his head, suddenly contemplating if he should go to the courtesans if he has another urge.

He lies down beside Ambra, pulling up the fur blanket to cover both of them. She stirs in her sleep, turning around to face him, and the action makes him pause in motion. He watches her sighing before resuming the calm breathing. The thick dark mane of her is sprawled on the pillows, some sticking to her face. He sighs and closes his eyes, forcing himself to sleep, to forget what happens today.


	19. Chapter 19

Ambra swears the assassins are suicidal.

She is standing with a group of brethren on the top of the west tower that overlooks the canyon. Despite the clear sky and the smile of encouragement from the four, possibly, suicidal instructors, the students are terrified. At the edge of the tower there are three wooden planks leading to death below, and the instructors want the students to jump down.

Malik has an amused smile on his face, "It's safe, trust me."

Has he lost his mind? Ambra turns to look at Rauf, who offers nothing but a smile on the side of his face. Altaïr is crossing his arms in front of his chest, staring at the huddled up group, eyes scanning one by one. She wishes he will not call her forward.

"A demonstration perhaps?" Malik says, turning to Abbas. "If you may -"

The bearded instructor scoffs, "Shouldn't we learn from the best?" He turns to Altaïr. "Go on. You are more skillful than us combined."

Altaïr ignores the sarcastic remark, "I don't believe the Brotherhood needs cowards as assassins."

Against the glare that Abbas gives, or the chuckle that Malik lets out, Altaïr walks to the wooden plank. He faces forward, standing tall and certain. He spreads his arms to the side and suddenly, he leaps forward.

Ambra's breath is caught in her throat - apparently not only her. The brethren around her are holding their breath as well, some let out a gasp, others mutter a surprised exclamation. Malik and Rauf head to the edge of the tower and look down to where Altaïr must have landed. Abbas merely glances with half interest.

"There he goes." Malik mutters.

"Finally." Abbas comments. "Who's next to jump? Ambra?" He suddenly turns to her, and she flinches upon hearing her name. "You should join your master. He could be lonely down there."

They are kidding, right?

Malik motions her to come forward, "It's not going to hurt. Unless you fail, then yes, it is going to be excruciating. Just make sure to clench your teeth and keep your feet together -"

"And do a flip." Rauf adds with a small smile.

Ambra freezes in her place. She looks around for the sign of the brethren to at least voice their concern or join her in the leap, but none says anything, not even Kadar who is suddenly quiet. Oh Allah, she sighs, and hesitantly steps forward.

"Good - the first student to perform leap of faith is a female, it says a lot about all of you." Malik sneers towards the brethren.

Mind you, the said female student is forced to perform first, Ambra curses inwardly. She inhales deeply upon stepping between Malik and Abbas, not yet reaching the wooden plank. Malik chuckles at her, and she blushes upon knowing he is laughing at her expression.

"Since we have no intention to kill you," Abbas turns her around so she is facing the brethren. It does not help her relaxing at all. Her eyes glance around, panicking, looking for comfort in the eyes of the brethren. But she finds none as they are anxious for their own turn.

Abbas guides her backwards onto the wooden plank, and her breath hitches. She can feel the strong wind blowing against her. Her heartbeat races in her chest, beating loudly in her ears. She almost does not realize when Abbas takes her arms to cross them in front of her chest. She looks up at him, half pleading, but he only offers a small smile.

"Do it for the Assassin Brotherhood, sister." He says, holding her crossed arms. He guides her backwards again, until she is at the mercy of his hands. The wooden plank under her feet suddenly feels less steady than it looks. Abbas nods once, "if you still hesitate, do it for your master."

She is certain Altaïr will not want her killed.

When Abbas lets go of her, she falls backwards. The speed of her fall is too fast, that she can only see blurred images of the tower wall as she plummets to the ground. Please let there be something to catch me below, she silently prays.

Her back makes contact with a soft material, and she finds herself drown in the said material. She panics as it envelops her, her arms flailing as she rolls to the side to get away from it. She feels the snowy ground under her hands. The coldness that seeps into her tunics startles her even more. What... She pants loudly, body trembling with both fear and excitement, as the adrenaline pumps through her bloodstream. Still half crawling on the ground, she turns to look at what broke her fall.

Hay bale. A large pile of snowy hay bale. A few is stuck to her tunics. So that is why they were so calm, she sighs, looking upwards to the top of the tower where she can see three dots of Malik, Rauf, and Abbas' heads looking down at her. She chuckles shakily, despite the nerves in her body making her tremble from top to toes.

Altaïr is leaning against the wall of the canyon, an amused look on his face. "Thrilling, isn't it?"

"I wish I could say the same," she staggers as she stands up, feet feel unsteady as she walks on the snowy ground to reach where he stands.

She anchors herself on the wall beside him, holding the rocks with trembling fingers, as she begins to regulate her breathing and calms her heart. The effort is futile, however, as she glances at Altaïr, whose eyes are looking towards the canyon.

Ever since that time, he changes his manner around her. It is a bit awkward, almost feels like he is avoiding her. Perhaps he finds their action to be a mistake and he does not know how to rectify it? Knowing him and how straightforward he can be, she is certain that is the reason. He trains her as usual, talks with her occasionally, but there is an air of uncertainty and hostility in the way he acts. What makes matter worse is he has heighten the training for the incoming elevation after winter. He insists that his students be elevated to new ranks.

This is not bad, actually. She finds herself thinking the worst possibilities that can come out after their action weeks ago. He could have liberated her, perhaps finding her absence to be more liberating or peaceful. It must have been awful to be stuck in the same place with someone you cannot face at all. She is tempted to be the first to speak, to apologize, or to simply say that she does not mind, but what if his silence is caused by something else? Oh if only he would speak his need. So much for building trust...

Ambra returns to reality as a figure lands into the hay bale in front of her. The newly fallen figure jumps out of the hay bale, panting, but less trembling than her. Kadar appears taken aback, and he staggers towards her and Altaïr. "Are you alright?" Kadar asks her.

"I should ask you the same." She replies, grinning as he also offers a grin. Kadar leans against the canyon wall beside her.

"I'd be alright if my brother had not tossed me so easily from the tower." He replies, earning a scoff from Altaïr. The tall assassin does not say anything in reply, however.

"Malik threw you off the tower?" Ambra asks. From the small talks of Kadar and his brethren, apparently Malik has a dark sense of humor. She should not be surprised, after all, the oldest As-Sayf takes joy in making other people uncomfortable.

"More like pushed me off. I swear he's -"

But the rest of Kadar's words is cut off as two figures fall down to the two piles of hay bale. Before they can register who just fell, the third figure fall into the third pile of hay bale. It seems the three instructors above are enjoying throwing the students off of the tower.

The first to emerge from the pile is Rasit. He chuckles nervously upon finding himself still alive. The next to emerge is Bilal, with wide eyes and shocked expression. The last is Rahim, who seems a bit calmer than the last two assassins. They head towards the canyon wall, each muttering their own curses, and Ambra holds back a laughter upon the profanity.

"Kadar," Altaïr calls, "you and Ambra should return to the tower." He gestures to the far side of the canyon, where the base of the tower is located. But there is no door, instead, numerous horizontal beams adorn the wall.

Ambra inwardly groans. Of course, climbing. What is it with assassin and their obsession in extreme activities? She wonders. She glances at Altaïr, finding him looking away to another direction. Did he just purposely avoid me? She sighs and walks past him, Kadar following behind, to the side wall of the canyon.

The wall seems a bit slippery due to the snow, and it concerns her. She runs her fingertips on the stone, testing how slippery it is. The distance to the top is too far - she wonders if she can hold on for that long. There is no hay bale around it, if she falls, she'd either fall to the ground or to the river down below. She is not the only one who is concerned. Kadar is examining the wall, trying to figure out where to grab to reach the top.

"Shall I go first?" Ambra asks.

Kadar frowns at the wall, "You could try. I'll stay close to you."

She takes hold on the stone wall and starts climbing slowly. She keeps her eyes up, looking for the next beam to hold. It will be easier if the beams are aligned like a ladder, but no, whoever made them is clearly a daredevil. The beams are a bit slippery from the snow, making her having to double-check her grip in case it is not strong enough.

"That one on the right, Ambra." Kadar says from beneath her.

She grabs the right ledge, pulling herself up. "We're not halfway yet."

Kadar huffs, "If you're tired, we can head to the corner. It's safer to rest for a while there."

"Not yet, though. Come on." She starts climbing again.

The wind is starting to blow harsher as they finally reach halfway up the tower. Ambra feels the coldness seeping through her fingertips and back, and she shivers, immediately making her way to the corner where it might be warmer. Kadar is following her, keeping a protective distance right beneath her. She leans against the corner wall, huffing loudly, letting her teeth chatter from the cold.

Kadar catches up with her, now standing just beside her, keeping one hand behind her belt. "Are you alright?" He asks, light gray eyes show concern and caution.

She manages a nod, "I'm fine. Though let's face it, Kadar, they're going to make us jump again."

He sighs heavily. His gray hood has fallen from his head, now baring the short dark hair to the harsh wind. His resemblance to Malik is uncanny, though the face is void of playful emotion. "We have no choice. Either we jump or they'll throw us off, either way, we have to climb again." He mutters, then offers a small smile. "Let's take it slowly then?"

To that offer, she nods. They start climbing again, she starts first, but slower. Her arms feel straining from the constant movement, as do her legs. She does not know which one is worse, the soreness of her muscle, or the cold wind that bites against her skin to the bone. Then she wonders how it must be during summer, and she groans upon remembering how hot it can be in Masyaf.

They almost reach the top of the tower when Kadar tugs on her tunic, "Don't look down," he says as she is about to turn her head to him. Instead, he climbs up beside her, again, holding the back of her belt with one hand, pressing her to the wall. It is the same protective stance that Altaïr usually did during their climbing training, and it brings a spark in her chest. Kadar has a small smile on his face, "Look there, Ambra." He turns his head towards the canyon, and she follows.

She has missed that view on the way down, but seeing it now, it is breathtaking. The canyon and the dense forest along the river are covered in thin layer of snow. In the distance, there is the oasis, with large trees and what seems to be a lake in the middle of it. The horizon is blurred in white. The clear sky, for once, shines upon the scenery. Sunrays reflected by the water of the river, creating a twinkle here and there. She mutters a praising absentmindedly.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Kadar snaps her back to reality. "That's the oasis over there. When winter ends, let's go there together. We can meet some peddlers, or go fishing in the lake - if I recall, Bilal said there's some fruit trees there."

Ambra looks at Kadar's side profile, as he is still taking in the view. His voice is full of honesty, not lined with ulterior motives, and it touches her. She smiles at him, "I'd love that."

They finally reach the top of the tower - she crawls away from the edge, then tries to stand. Her arms and calves feel strained. Kadar is wiping sweat off of his forehead with his palm.

Ambra watches as Malik and Abbas 'throw' the brethren one by one off of the wooden plank, while Rauf simply pushed them off. It is almost like they're enjoying it, despite the terrified expression in their students' faces. Malik is the first to notice her and Kadar's return, and a wide grin breaks on his face, flashing his teeth at them. "Ah, coming back for more?"

Kadar has an exasperated look on his face as he mutters to her, "By Allah, he's going to kill us one day."

"Not if Abbas does it first." She replies quietly.  
Rauf and Abbas toss two other students down, then watch as they hit the hay bales down below, both of them grinning. Malik motions towards Ambra, "Come now, you know how it's done."

She groans rather loudly, earning a laughter from Malik. Kadar offers her an encouraging smile, almost apologetically for his brother's behavior, before she walks towards Malik.

The oldest As-Sayf leads her to the wooden plank, where she finally stands on the edge, heart thumping loudly in her chest. Malik stands behind her, "Do not hesitate, sister. You already know of what's below, don't you?"

She nods, "Yes, Malik." She cannot see his expression from here, but he must have been smiling. His voice sounds calmer as he continues.

"Imagine it like this," he says, "Altaïr's in trouble down there, and the fastest way to help him is by taking this leap. Surely you won't let your master gets killed, won't you?"

She doubts Altaïr can be easily killed - but her duty as a servant begs otherwise. She is still bound to his will, anyway, it will be disastrous if her master is killed.

Malik taps her on the shoulder, "Look straight ahead and take a deep breath." She does as told. "Good. You have no fear of death, Ambra, you hear me?" She nods. "You do not fear death - repeat after me."

"I do not fear death." She says a bit shakily.

"Again." Malik says, voice a bit lower that it is almost a whisper, as if he does not want to be heard by the others. Abbas has already thrown another student from the tower.

Ambra inhales deeply and looks straight ahead. This is the life of an assassin, she reminds herself, this is the life that I chose. She tries to recall the days in the mill, her friends, her promises to them, the agony that she feels upon having to wait to kill Jaqq. She will deliver death to him, she reassures herself, pushing down her own fear into her guts, as she repeats.

"I do not fear death."

Malik has stepped away from the wooden plank, leaving her all alone. For a while, she cannot hear anything but the gushing wind and the muffled sound of her heartbeat in her ears. Her eyes are open and looking towards the horizon, at the beautiful view and what lies beyond the fortress, and without hesitating, she takes the leap.

Her arms are stretched to the side and legs are straight, and for a moment, she believes she is flying. Everything seems to go slower as she falls, that she can see the details of the canyon, the trees, the river, and suddenly she is looking at the sky. When did she perform a flip, she does not remember. Then she lands onto the pile of hay, and her vision turns into darkness as it envelops her.

She wastes no time jumping out of the hay bale, surprised to find stability in her legs, though her ears are finally catching up on what just happens. Her heartbeat is still loud in her ears, that she almost does not hear Altaïr talking to her. He does not push for a response, thankfully, instead beckoning her to come to the side.

There are brethren surrounding him, those who just landed from being thrown by either Malik or Abbas, and they all look at her like they have seen a ghost. She anchors herself on the canyon wall beside Altaïr, as her senses slowly return to normal. Her breathing gets slightly labored, and that is when Altaïr chuckles beside her.

"You did it." He says, tone full of pride.

"I did it." She says, almost not believing it. Did I take the leap of faith? How am I still alive?

Altaïr does not say another word to her, but he is ordering the other students to start climbing up the wall to return to the tower. Ambra finds herself slumping backwards against the canyon wall, still overwhelmed by what she just performed. It is not the action that surprises her the most, it is the lack of hesitation as she does it. One moment she feared death, then suddenly she feels free. Liberated. It feels like she can do whatever she wants - like somehow she is invincible to harm. She glances at Altaïr, no wonder he feels so sure of himself - who knows how many leaps he has done.

Apparently, her demonstration of leap of faith has lead the brethren to be competitive - though she is sure there is a certain instructor up there feeding fuels to the male students. Soon three figures land on the hay bales simultaneously. Not long afterwards, three other figures land again. It goes on and on, until Altaïr orders them to start climbing up to the tower, dismissing the populated mass of student from the canyon side.

After several more leaps, the training finally comes to a stop an hour before lunch. By then, Ambra feels slightly numb from the leaping and the climbing, although her fingers and toes might need a tending. They are a bit frostbitten.

She blindly follows Altaïr back to the room, lost in her own thought. She can still see the white horizon in her peripheral vision, as if it is permanently etched there, and her ears decide to muffle her surrounding, heartbeat loud inside. She does not even realize that they have reached the room - only coming back to her senses when the warm temperature bites her skin.

Altaïr says something, and she frowns, looking at him, "I'm sorry? I didn't catch that." She says, taking her boots off.

He lowers his hood, and repeats the question, "I said, how was that?"

She struggles for a word. Exciting? Thrilling? Terrifying? She huffs a laughter, "Amazing, actually."

As much as she'd like to lie down on the carpet, her clothes are damp from sweating and the snow. She heads to the wardrobe to change, while Altaïr is filling the brazier with firewood to keep the room warm. She takes off her hood and holster, placing the latter in the wardrobe, while the former is left on the floor. Then she takes off her armbraces to store. Her belt is next, and she winces upon twisting the hook to the front, as her forearms feel sore from such a simple movement. Her sash falls to the floor.

When she tries to lift the hem of her outer tunic up, she hisses in pain, opting to stop and massage the soreness, wishing it can go away. The hiss goes unnoticed by Altaïr, however he does not say anything.

Now this is going to be a pain to work with, she sighs upon remembering there is still another training session after lunch. She crosses her arms to massage them, kneading gently against the straining muscle. She glances at her blue fingertips - this is not good, she thinks.

Taking a deep breath, she pulls the collar of her outer tunic upwards, taking it off as quickly as she can. The damp material is finally off of her, leaving her in the inner tunic and trousers. She lets it fall to the floor, huffing. Now for the hardest part.

She grabs the hem of her inner tunic, which is longer than the outer one, and carefully lifts it up. Her upper arms are straining again as she reaches her navel, and she decides to stop. This is not good - she wonders if she can just cut the fabric off. Her eyes fall to the numerous throwing knives on Altaïr's side of wardrobe, and she reaches to take one.

"What in the world are you thinking?" His voice comes almost like a scolding from behind. She turns around, finding him frowning with crossed arms. It seems like he has been waiting for her to move aside.

She drops her hand to the side, "I can't take off my tunic." She replies quietly.

"And you choose to cut it off instead of asking for help?" He asks.

"Well... It's not appropriate to ask for -"

He waves his hand dismissively, "Turn around." He approaches her, and she instantly jumps, as he grabs the back of her tunic.

She inhales deeply as he brings up her inner tunic, until her head is free from the damp fabric. He keeps on pulling upwards until both of her arms are free, then he drops the tunic to the floor. She instantly grabs a new tunic from the wardrobe, unfolds it, and carefully slides her head and arms in.

Once she is dressed in the new tunic, Altaïr pushes her aside to take off his effects. She steps aside, giving him room, while also trying to remove her trousers. She kicks the material off, then takes a new one. "Is it normal to feel numb after leap of faith?" She asks as she puts on a new pair.

"Depends," Altaïr unhooks his belt deftly, "you're numb because of the rush and the cold. If it is summer, you'd be fine." He pauses as she takes his arm and helps him remove the armbrace. "I'm impressed that you managed to perform a leap of faith on your own. It seems I've underestimated your will."

Ambra places his armbrace in the wardrobe, then moves to remove the other one. "I'm still honestly surprised, though."

"Who threw you off for the second time?"

"No one, no, Malik - he talked to me." She sighs. "He said if I hesitate, I should do it for you, like imagine if you were in trouble and I had to leap and help you -" she stops as Altaïr suddenly lets out an amused chuckle, almost sounds like a sneering. She places his second armbrace in the wardrobe. "What?"

"You truly prioritize your duty as a servant, huh?" He says, almost sounds cynical.

She takes offense of the remark. "With all respect, Altaïr, I'm still your servant, not just a student. I'm bound to your will, and your well-being is a priority over mine. Whatever you need of me, I shall perform my duty to you."

He scoffs at her words, and she fights not to glare at him. "You think of myself so lowly that I'd need you for pleasure?"

She burns at his words. How arrogant... She opens her mouth to reply, but opts to sighs instead. There is no use arguing with her master. She lowers her head, "No, I - I apologize."

Yet he sneers, "Have you no shame? Stand up for yourself - you're an assassin, for Heaven's sake."

"Arguing with the master is against my duty -"

Altaïr grunts as he slams his side of wardrobe door close with too much force. The whole wardrobe is shaking at the impact, throwing knives rattling inside. Ambra tries not to make a move, staying in her place, as he continues barking at her.

"For once, set aside your duty as a servant and see as an assassin. You're supposed to have faith in the Brotherhood, not in me, certainly not in any other assassins. How easy for you to apologize without defending yourself. Look at me," his voice is booming, deep and loud in front of her. She raises her head to look at him, jaw clenching and nostrils flaring from holding herself back. "Without me, what would you be? Helpless? Hopeless? Stand up for yourself, Ambra, you're more than someone's property. I'm responsible for you, that's it, I did not even want to own you. Yet here you are." He moves his hands as he speaks.

She takes a forceful breath as there is a knot forming in her throat. Do not reply, she reminds herself, blinking slowly as she tries to regulate her breathing. Altaïr is frowning at her, and he continues.

"If only Al-Mu'alim handed you to someone else, it will be easier for both of us."

She sighs, defeated. "Say it, then."

"Say what?" He frowns deeper.

"Say that you wish to liberate me. I'll take my leave and return to Al-Mu'alim." She speaks almost through gritted teeth. Her eyes feel burning with the upcoming tears, and she looks away. How dare he utters those words so easily? Her chest feels burning, painful, like being cauterized with hot iron.

Altaïr moves away from her, pacing in the center of his room with both hands on his hips. He is calculating something, and she hates to guess what he is about to say next. He stops near the table, then turns around to her. "Is that what you want? To be liberated from me?"

"You don't seem so keen with my presence." She replies.

"Answer the question." He says.

She sighs heavily, "I cannot perform my duty if the master is unwilling to have me." she closes her side of wardrobe door, then leans against it.

Altaïr is eyeing her sharply, "Sex then? That's what you seek?"

"No - by Allah, Altaïr, I'm confused! You closed yourself and I cant understand what you need from me! You own me - whatever you need, I will gladly -"

"I did not kiss you because you're a servant." He suddenly cuts her off. "Is that what you see from me? That I indulge in our kiss simply because we're master and servant? Because you were performing your duty?"

Yes? No? She wants to reply with all of the answers she can give, yet her throat decides to stop working. She sighs instead. Calm down. He is agitated, do not engage him in an argument, just stand your ground and accept whatever he is going to say -

Altaïr throws his hands in the air, "Of course. Why do I think you'd have a chance in the fortress - with that attitude, you should be a courtesan."

Ambra does not think twice as she moves towards him, holding her breath, then raises a hand to slap him across the face. She manages to hit his cheek, only partially, as he grabs her wrist in defense and twists her, until her arm is behind her back. She grunts and struggles to escape, "For a high ranking assassin, you are really ungrateful, Altaïr!"

"How so?!" He huffs against her ear.

She stomps onto his foot with all of her force, then throws her head back to hit him on the mouth. His grip loosens a bit, but immediately tightens again.

"All I want is to join the assassins and save my friends - serving another master is another duty I have to endure in exchange of training - GAH!" she groans as Altaïr kicks her behind the knee, rendering her to fall to the floor, and he still holds onto her arm tightly. He pins her down against the floor, and she struggles again, squirming, another hand moves back to grab onto his hair - scratch, pinch, punch, anything.

He simply grabs her other hand and pins it down to the floor. "And once your friends are avenged, then what, hmm? You'll return here as a servant? That's it?" He is too heavy, it is useless - no, she pants. She turns her head to the side and bites onto his wrist. He grunts loudly, immediately releasing her wrist. She takes advantage of that to grab his hair and yanks him forward.

"Its my duty to you, and you're not making it easier! Let's face it, Altaïr, you're selfish and afraid of responsibility!" She huffs loudly.

He snakes an arm around her neck, and she looks down to bite again, harder this time. He growls at her ferocity, finally removing her pinned arm - and she wastes no time to roll away from him.

"You're insufferable to deal with! Inconsistent - one time you're humane, next time youre not!" She gasps as he yanks her foot towards him. She turns to look, and kicks him across the face. He looks genuinely hurt - why should she care? He does not care of her feeling anyway. But he keeps on yanking her to him, until he uses both hands to catch her ankles and drags her. She sits up to slap him again. Her palm makes contact with his cheek loudly. "You're frustrating me!"

"As you are! You keep seeing yourself as a property, never human!" He barks, moving upwards to grab her wrists again, but she catches his first. He twists his arms to release her grip, and she uses the chance to lean forward and bite his ear. "AMBRA!" he exclaims loudly.

Whatever strength he has, he unleashes it all. He grabs the back of her head, gripping the base of her hair, and pulls away. She sinks her teeth further, and he groans again. His other hand suddenly moves to the front of her tunic, and she jumps as it slides under her tunic.

"Release me now or I'll use force on you." His voice is thrumming with raw energy, it is almost scary. But she has no intention to back down. She grabs his wrist, pulling him away from under her tunic, all while keeping his ear between her teeth. "Suit yourself -"

She bites down harder on his ear as his hand finds its way up to one of her breast and grips it tightly. It is painful - she tries to pry his hand away from her, but he gives another sharp grip, and she groans. Another method then. She releases his ear, and he removes his hand from under her tunic, immediately he tries to pin her arms down to the floor.

She looks at him almost apologetically, as she brings her legs between them. One leg she uses to press against his chest, and the other to kick him in the groin. He growls again, and she rolls away from him, far away to duck under the table.

Altaïr is groaning, one hand holding over his groin, and the other is balled into a fist, punching the stone floor angrily. "You've crossed the line -"

"I don't care!" She barks back. "You keep on complaining about not wanting me as your servant - well how do I feel?! I chose to serve you not because Al-Mu'alim ordered me to, but because he trusts you - and I do! I chose you willingly, yet now you want to be rid of me?! Why not get rid of me earlier?! Why now when I've grown accustomed with your manners and routines - oh - when I've grown trusting you?!"

He looks at her, eyebrows furrowing, "You want to go, then go! Pretty sure any other assassins would be glad to have you under their blanket!"

She chokes back an angry groan, blinking back tears as she grabs the first thing she sees nearby, the rusty black pot, and throws it at his direction. He catches it before it hits him, then tosses it aside. It clangs loudly against the floor. He stands up, and heads to her. She ducks under the table, quickly crawls away and heads to the door. But her forehead makes contact with the wooden door as suddenly she is shoved forward from the back.

She squirms as Altaïr grabs her and hoists her over his shoulder. She punches his back, earning a grunt from him. He drops her onto the carpet, and before she can crawl away, he flips her to her stomach and pins her back down with his knee. She has no other words to say, but still fighting against him - it is a mistake, she huffs as he gathers her hands together. She looks back to find him tying her hands together with his sash. It is a mistake for her to argue with him in the first place.

He sits over her lower back, breath panting, "Now, are you calm yet?"

She sighs, dropping her head to the pillow to muffle her cry. "Just do your worst."

"Believe me, I'm tempted to, but that would mean killing you." He replies, lowering himself until his front is molded with her back. He combs back her hair from her face, and she turns to see the other way. He sighs and drops his head over her ear. "Ambra," he calls, voice stern.

"What?" She barks.

"I will stay like this until we both calm down." He replies.

"See what I mean? A second ago you were hell-bent in shouting at me, now you're acting like it was nothing." She sniffles, wiping her eyes on the pillow. Her breathing is ragged, heartbeat still racing wildly, even her muscles are screaming.

He grunts against her ear, it sends her shuddering. "You wish to argue with me now?"

"No - you wished me to argue with you." She huffs, trying to push herself up, but he is having none of it. It is a bit difficult to breathe under his weight.

He does not reply. Whatever raw energy he has, it is still there, she can feel it burning in his chest to her back. She gives up. This is why she should not have engaged him in an argument - she should have known better than slapping her master across the face. But on her defense, he is the one to blame, crossing the line like that...

She slumps down on the carpet, and he takes it as a cue that she has calmed down. "Please untie me, Altaïr." She mutters against the pillow.

"Would you try to hit me again?" He says over her ear.

"I can't feel my arms." She replies.

He sits up to untie his sash from around her wrists, and she drags her arms down, groaning as the muscles are straining. A hand snakes to the front of her tunic, pulling her to sit upright, and she obeys silently, despite her inner thought telling her to hit him on the groin again.

Altaïr sits leaning against the wall and brings her up to sit between his legs. He presses her so she leans against his chest. His hands cover over hers, as if still not believing that she will not try to hit him again. He crosses her arms over her chest, and lowers his head to rest his chin on her shoulder.

With this position, Ambra can feel each take of breath and the thumping of his heart. His nose blows hot breath directly to the side of her face. Is this supposed to calm me down? She recalls the things he said to her, and how it aches - why does it hurt so much? Should she not be happy to be liberated from him? After all, he is distracting her from, well, everything.

She blinks back a renegade tear, but another one has fallen to her cheek. Perhaps he is correct. Altaïr is Altaïr, she cannot expect him to open up and be gentle, in fact, he takes pride in keeping his composure. It would have been better if only Al-Mu'alim talked about Malik in the first place, she can deal with him. At least Malik is gentler and calmer - skillful and knowledgeable, on top of that. And then what? She is supposed to leave Altaïr altogether and pretend the last months mean nothing? She shudders at the thought.

"Ambra," Altaïr calls lowly. It reverberates through his chest. "What do you want?"

"I've made it clear on what I want, Altaïr, now what do you want?" She replies sharply.

He sighs, "No, you haven't."

Oh must she repeat it again?

She takes the time to be selfish, once, and utters her needs. "I don't wish to be liberated from you." She sniffles. "I may have crossed many lines in my duty, and it's confusing me. Should I be muffled or speak freely? Should I act on order or act on my own?"

He does not say a word. It seems he is at the same predicament, stumped.

It takes a few moments until he finally speaks.

"Setting aside our title as master and servant, and our life as assassins," he starts, "what do you want?"

"You mean as a free person?" She asks.

"Yes." He replies.

She sighs, feeling the sharp pang in her chest and the aching that follows. "I..." She feels the blush coming up her cheeks - can she say it? Can she even face him again after this? She swallows her chances and speaks, "I want to stay with you."

"Even when Im insufferable to deal with?" He asks, huffing a laughter.

"Yes." She smiles tightly, "But it's your decision, Altaïr."

He sighs against her shoulder, pulling her tighter to him. "I like this arrangement. This is much better than being alone."

She can actually imagine him as a lonely old man in his sixties, still deadly and a legend of the Brotherhood, with gray hair and wrinkled face. And she will be there, old woman, possibly helping him doing some tasks. She smiles at the thought.

He must have felt the pull of her cheeks, because the next thing he does is pressing his own smile to the side of her face. "I expect you to see yourself more than just a servant, Ambra. You have life, you're a human. I cant always be there to stand up for you, though I'm sure you can bite your way out of anything." He chuckles and she huffs a laughter.

"I'm sorry for the bites."

"They're understood. I won't recommend biting the enemy on the face, however."

She sighs in his embrace. Despite the calming words, she is still very confused of their circumstance. It is not a simple one. He wants her like this, then like that, then like this again - what does he actually want? She closes her eyes. No, what does she actually want?

"I don't want to go." She says it out loud. "Living with you has been the best thing that ever happened to me."

"I don't intend on letting you go." He mutters. "You..." He sighs, then opts to chuckle. "You still have a lot of training to do."

Why does she feel that he is hiding something?

But she only nods, "Please forgive me, Altaïr."

"You're forgiven. I'm sorry for...many things." He replies.

She nods again, "It's alright."

Is it, though? But she cannot bring herself to question him more. Instead, she takes in the embrace he is giving her, more like a confinement in case they are going to hurt each other again. He could have done worse, with his years of experience and skills, he could have accidentally killed her. Who knows - maybe the next time they argue, blood will be spilled.


	20. Chapter 20

Sound travels even through stone walls, especially in a tower full of assassins with trained ears.

The first to complain is Malik. He pulls Altaïr aside after lunch, lying about wanting to talk about the next training, so that Altaïr will come willingly. Once he does, however, Malik changes drastically.

"I heard you clearly from across the hall - just what in God's name did you do to her?" He asks quietly. They are standing outside the dining hall, close to the ward and the meditation room, and Malik is straining to keep his tone low.

Altaïr scoffs, "You said you heard us clearly."

"I heard her shouting and screaming - by Allah, I was going to barge in." Malik crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I'm not the only one, by the way. Abbas and Khalid heard it too, as well as some of our students - they were gathering on the staircase."

Isn't that great? The whole fortress now thinks he is abusing her.

Altaïr drops his cynical tone, "It's nothing of your concern, but to ease your burden, she is alright. We had a discussion, we came out unharmed. You saw her yourself in the dining hall."

Malik groans, shaking his head in disbelief, "You should have a warning not to be placed near women."

"And you should not meddle with someone else's business." Altaïr barks.

Malik sighs, calloused composure uncracking against Altaïr's words. "If what I heard is correct, you're intending to liberate her? Is that true?"

"Just...how much did you hear, Malik?"

Malik combs his hair backwards, "That she called you insufferable, and you told her to go since there are others who would appreciate her warmth. So, what exactly happened? She offered to be touched and you turned her down?"

Altaïr pinches the bridge of his nose, "It's...a misunderstanding. I expect her to look at things as an assassin, but she insists on being a servant. Somehow I must have said something that angered her -"

"Of course you have." Malik scoffs.

"Why am I explaining this to you?" Altaïr groans in disbelief.

"Because the brethren are thinking she is going to be liberated soon, and they're eager to have her." Malik explains through gritted teeth. "Kadar came to me and asked if I was going to take her in, and I'm seriously thinking of the offer -"

"She is not going anywhere." Altaïr cuts off sternly.

Malik looks slightly shocked, but he recovers quickly. "Is that a hint of possessiveness I'm sensing?"

Seriously, Altaïr wonders what it will take for Malik to stop interfering with his business. "She is still bound to me, Malik, and I have no intention of changing that. Now quit asking questions, for I hate to use my rank on you." Altaïr says.

There is a smirk on the side of Malik's face, "Very well, but allow me to talk to Ambra."

"No."

"I can tell the truth to the brethren, that both of you had an argument and no abuse was presented. It'll clear your name for once." Malik raises an eyebrow. "I'm certain the rumor about you has grown extensively. They are saying you need to violate her in order to...keep it up."

Altaïr swears if he catches the names of those people, he'd start throwing knives around. He sighs deeply, "Very well. You may talk to her."

"I'd like to start now, if that's alright."

Altaïr turns around to head back into the dining hall, where he has left Ambra there. As he enters, he is taken aback as he sees the brethren surrounding her - Tholeb has taken a protective stance to sit beside her, Hamzah on the other side with Sofyan, and Rasit is just across her. Kadar is standing behind her, as if observing, brows furrowing and it makes him resemble Malik more than he actually is.

Altaïr assumes to take a seat across Ambra, moving Rasit aside from her. "Malik's looking for you." He tells her, then gestures to the door. "Don't keep him waiting."

Ambra looks at him and nods, before standing up and leaving the dining hall. Altaïr inhales deeply, eyeing each and every single students sitting around the empty space of her seat.

"If you have things to say, do so now." He commands sternly. There is no use in small talk anyway.

Surprisingly, Hamzah is the first to open his mouth, "I mean no disrespect, Altaïr, even I am surprised to hear of what happened. But I'm curious, are you truly going to liberate her?"

"Did she tell you that?" Altaïr asks back.

"She hasn't said a word about what happened, actually." Hamzah replies.

"We thought, maybe, it's a sensitive subject." Sofyan adds.

"We apologize for overhearing the argument," Rasit says, "I...well, we thought the worst, actually, but knowing you - I don't think you'd be rough with her."

Altaïr sighs, "Your sister is alright, the argument has passed, and there was no abuse done to anyone." At least not to her, he thinks, absentmindedly kneading the arm where she bit him. "A worthy advice to you, before I lose my patience. Quit poking your nose into someone else's business, or you might lose it."

There is a look of terror in the students' faces, and they briefly glance at each other. Only Kadar who remains steady, but says nothing, jaws clenching. Altaïr opts to ignore them and starts filling his plate with food.

Ambra returns when his plate is almost empty, with face flushed and eyes widen, but not in fear. She sits across Altaïr, where her brethren have decided to leave before invoking another wrath from Altaïr - much to his dismay, actually. He glances at her, observing her body language.

"Did he humiliate you?" He asks quietly, then takes the last bite from his plate.

"No - it's all appropriate." She replies softly.

She appears tensed, with a hint of tears by the corners of her eyes. "What did he say to you?" He asks again.

She sighs, trembling, "May I speak with you in the room later, Altaïr?"

Somehow he senses something is wrong. Well of course it is, their argument was not really a quiet one, was it? He takes a drink quickly, and continues, "Then let's head back now."

Something is definitely wrong - he can practically smell it in the air.

It is in the room that Ambra suddenly opens up, turning to him as he locks the door behind, and she speaks quietly as if fearing if others are listening outside. "Abbas has reported to Al-Mu'alim, and he is asking for my presence in his quarter."

"Why didn't you go then?" Altaïr asks, voice almost sounds like a whisper.

She takes a deep breath as she lowers her hood, "I'm about to, I just want to inform you first in case -" she looks around the room, unsure, and he has a feeling he knows what she fears of. "In case...he'll order my freedom and assign me to another master."

Altaïr frowns. Unless he is missing details of how master and servant relationship works, he knows that she is bound to him only, not to Al-Mu'alim. But the Grand Mentor technically can order him to liberate her - ah, that's the problem.

"You should not delay in meeting him." He tells her.

She nods, her eyes gaze to the floor. "Yes, you're right." She looks up at him, a face that contorts into sadness and disappointment, and he meets her emerald gaze. Don't just stand idly, you idiot, say something to her. "If what I fear is true, I'd like to say -"

"If it is true, we can still see each other on the field." Not that, he mentally smacks himself. "Whoever master that you choose, I pray that he will not cause you harm."

This is not how he imagined their end to be.

She smiles at him, yet sadness lingers in her eyes. He cannot return the gesture - but why? He can just go up to her, embrace her, claim her - he knows she will not reject him. If anything, her gaze screams for him to initiate a physical contact, or a soothing words. You trust me too much, he thinks, as he moves aside from the door.

"Go to him now. I'll be here."

He watches as her smile falters and she walks away, unlocking the door quickly, and out of his room immediately. He listens as her footsteps slowly disappear in the distance, until he cannot hear them anymore. The silence greets him. But for once, he dreads how eerily quiet it is. Somehow it sends him back to his father's room, quiet, until the nightmare arrived and -

And he sighs deeply. You stupid dog, he curses himself, as he drops himself to sit on the chair. Malik was right, he should not be allowed near women, with the way he just treated Ambra - he shakes his head. Ambra was right, he thinks, I am afraid of responsibility.

Being responsible to her means he will have to endure the pain in case something happens to her. He cannot let that happens, in fact, he cannot be burdened with it, it will hinder his focus on completing missions. Yet letting her go, can he actually accept it?

He opens his eyes to focus on his room, and he regrets on doing so, since all that he sees is trail of her golden hue. The place where she usually sleeps is marked with the hue in the same position as she sleeps. The cup on the table is glowing with the same faint hue. The wardrobe, the stone floor, each furniture in his room is tainted with golden hue. Faint, not strong nor intense, but enough to act as a reminder that she once occupied the space. It is good, right? Usually when he can see the trails, it means the target is alive. He smiles bitterly on the side of his face. And any idiot assassin out there to have her will never see her in this golden hue...

An hour or two must have passed since Ambra left for Al-Mu'alim's quarter. Altaïr sits up from the carpet where he has been sleeping. His nap is not a comfortable one, not a bad one either, but at least it was dreamless. Waking up, however, is a bit surprising. The snow has started to fall again, and the wind has picked up quite harshly.

He looks around, inhaling the scent that is her hair from the pillow. How...quiet. He wonders of what Al-Mu'alim is talking to her about - and why does it take so long? Perhaps she is in the garden, is his initial thought.

The evening comes and still there is no sign she will return soon. He tries to distract himself by training, swinging his sword in the center of the room, fighting an invisible enemy. But it is difficult to focus when his mind keeps thinking which move he should teach her next. Stop it, he barks at himself. She will have another master, possibly another instructor. Somehow he believes Al-Mu'alim will give her to Malik, or to Abbas - he grunts at the thought - or perhaps to Rauf, a gentler instructor seems better for her.

Altaïr huffs loudly as he lowers his sword, panting. This is not good, not good, not good, he repeats to himself. His focus has shifted and brought back the memory of when she used his sword. Even the handle has a faint golden hue around it. His mind replays that same feeling of possessiveness, the look in her eyes when she deflected his attack, the dark locks that begged to be pulled, the soft moaning and grunting, and the way his name rolled off her tongue perfectly.

But then his focus shifts, and he remembers the nightly discussions they used to have. Not to talk about politics or the war, but about idle things. Contemplating new last name for her, himself in his youth, the brethren's backgrounds, their food preferences - she likes the heavily spiced goat meat, and he smiles at the thought. He remembers her gentle gaze, the emerald green of her eyes, the laughter.

He hates to admit, but she will be missed -

The door is suddenly opened. Altaïr turns, and there she is, walking into the room quickly and closes the door forcefully behind her. When did it start storming? Ambra locks the door against the wind's attempt to blow it open.

He cannot say anything, simply watching as the golden hue around her is almost blinding, shining so brightly. He watches her shrugging off the snow from herself, hood lowered, and teeth chattering. She looks up at him, for once her expression is unreadable, but the scroll in her hand intrigues him.

"I..." She shivers. "We're still master and servant. Al-Mu'alim called me for another reason."

He raises his hand to stop her, "Change your clothes first, then we'll talk."

She heads to the wardrobe and begins taking off her effects. While he sheaths his sword back into the scabbard and places it on the table. He watches her undress quickly, fighting against the cold, and again, she is stuck with the inner tunic. Her arms must have been too sore to lift the tunic up.

"Altaïr, please help." She says, turning around to face him, and he glances briefly to the front of her tunic. He approaches hesitantly, not trusting himself as she has turned around from him. A vulnerable move.

But he lifts her tunic nonetheless, and the dampness that clings to the skin of her back is reflecting the light from the fire - and he exhales a breath he does not know he has been holding. There are faint lines running along her back, are those from lashing or caning? He wonders. She lifts her arms up with a groan - he can just wrap his arms around her and take her right now - NO, what is wrong with him? He quickly discards her tunic, and it drops with a loud plop on the floor.

The scroll that she brings is resting in the wardrobe, and he decides to avert his mind there. He takes it and walks away, opting to sit on the chair. "What is this?" He asks as he unrolls it.

She turns to him, already dressed and covered in her kaftan, closing the wardrobe door. "That's why Al-Mu'alim called for me. It's..."

Altaïr reads the parchment, suddenly invested in the content. Ambra sighs and plops down on the chair across from him, gathering her hands and resting her chin on top of them. "Al-Mu'alim asked for you?" He asks. The parchment contains an assassination target in Jerusalem.

She looks at him, "The target's name is Hayyiz. He's a merchant who trades in slaves. I...he's one of Jaqq's sellers." Her expression hardens. "Al-Mu'alim received a report from Aleppo about a caravan travelling south with a group of men, and they thought they were transporting prisoners. The assassins of Jerusalem then reported the caravan has arrived yesterday, and the 'prisoners' are actually slaves."

She sighs heavily, and he scans the parchment again. "Have you met him before?"

"Yes, many times." She replies, then suddenly chuckles nervously. "I'm...touched that Al-Mu'alim sent out orders to report activities regarding slavery to him."

"Is that what takes you so long?" Altaïr asks.

She drops her gaze to the table, "He...asked of what happened earlier, but he deemed that it's normal for us to argue, though he expects us to finish it more discreetly. Then he talked about Hayyiz, and about Jaqq - and apparently the northern cities have reported about slaves being sold, mainly to Jerusalem and Aleppo. If they are all connected to Jaqq, and if a bureau has been successfully made in Sis, then -" there is a small smirk on the side of her face, "- then Jaqq will be marked for death."

Altaïr rolls the parchment into a scroll and places it beside his sword. "I take it you will be sent to Jerusalem to kill this Hayyiz?

"No. It is for you, actually, on the note that I have to come with you to identify Hayyiz." Ambra replies, then quickly adds. "I won't be in your way, Altaïr."

He raises an eyebrow, "Then why didn't Al-Mu'alim ask for me?"

"I-I think it has something to do with our argument earlier. He said it's better if I'm informing you, to calm us down, at least."

"Are you not calm yet?"

"I'm calm, I'm calm," she smiles a bit. Then her eyes look up at him, and how he has missed that emerald green, and he holds himself back not to utter it out loud. He swears he sees a glint in her eyes, and he does not miss the pupils dilating, or the sharp intake of breath, and she says, "When...do you want to go?"

He almost forgets the context, remembering only a second too late. "Tomorrow, if the weather improves. We'll take the horses in the morning, so let's prepare tonight."

"Is it easy?" She asks.

"Is what easy?"

"Horse riding."

He frowns, holding himself from smacking his forehead. She has not received training in horse riding yet that is what he intends to teach her next summer. Well, this is not good.

"It takes about a week to reach Jerusalem, five and a half day if we're fast enough, and time is essential in this season." He says his thought out loud, then gazes to the scroll. "We can ride faster using one horse, though it'll mean we have to take frequent rest than usual. If the weather's good, we may be able to reach Jerusalem in a week."

She looks lost, but at the same time she looks as if imagining how to ride a horse for two people. "What should we prepare?"

"I'll handle the arsenal, you handle the food. Tomorrow morning, head to the dining hall and take some bread and dried fruits, and don't forget the waterskin." He replies, making a list of things to do before tonight. He will have to sharpen the weapons. Then preparing the essentials if they have to set up a camp on the road. With the snow and cold wind, they might need to bring more clothes than usual.

Absentmindedly, he starts gathering what they need for tomorrow. He has taken her sword, his dagger, and their hidden blades from the wardrobe to be sharpened. While she sits across him, helping him sharpening the blades. He observes his hidden blade. Perhaps it is only his concern, but he feels it is a bit delayed than usual - nothing lasts forever, he thinks, as he tests his and her hidden blade at the same time.

When all of their weapons have been prepared, he checks it off of his mental list. The armory keeps satchels filled with blankets, so that is not his concern for now. He then takes a number of throwing knives to store in the slots on his boots.

By night, the storm keeps getting worse. The wind bangs against the window, and it tempts Altaïr to nail it shut so it will not make more noise. He has returned to sit across Ambra, watching her wiping his dagger before sheathing it.

Her stomach rumbles loudly, and it honestly startles him. She pauses her movement, "I'm sorry."

He chuckles, earning a shy smile from her. "Take the salted meat out here, Ambra. We might have to have dinner in the room."

After washing their hands and cleaning the table from the clutter, Altaïr watches as she brings a wrapping of salted meat onto the table. She turns to take a knife from the shelf, and hands it to him. He accepts and starts opening the wrapping, revealing a pale looking meat, presumably beef. It has no smell or moisture, and certainly, it is going to taste salty and dried.

He cuts two pieces, both as large as his palm, and hands one to her. She accepts gratefully, muttering a prayer, before beginning to eat. He smiles at the change of expression on her face, "You're starving, aren't you?"

She swallows before speaking, "I hadn't eaten lunch properly with the questions the brethren were asking."

He bites on the meat, savoring the sharp salty flavor. For a moment, there are no other sound between them, except once when she finishes her meal and shyly asks if she can have another one. To which he replies by handing her the knife so she can cut the portion on her own. He makes a mental note to wrap the leftover and take it with them tomorrow.

When dinnertime is over, Altaïr decides to meditate and reflects on the target. The scroll tells that Hayyiz is commonly seen near the market of middle district of Jerusalem, and he is rarely alone, always surrounded by at least three guards, and he brings along his wife. Well, that is not going to be easy, a wailing widow attracts more attention than the city bell.

"What do you know about Hayyiz's wife?" He finds himself asking, still with closed eyes.

"He's not married," she replies.

"The scroll says he is."

"If he is married, he never brought her to the mill." She sounds closer than before, and he opens his eyes to find her sitting cross-legged in front of him. "Should we kill her too?"

"If she interferes, then yes. Otherwise, she is not marked for death." He sighs, deciding to stop meditating, as the sound of the rattled window bothers him. "We should sleep early."

He rolls over and lies down on his side of the carpet, sighing as he feels the dampness of his tunic from his own sweat. Maybe I'll change it tomorrow, he thinks. His thought wanders to what to do tomorrow, of what weather it will be, and which horse to take, that he is taken aback as Ambra suddenly tugs on his sleeve.

"Yes?" He asks.

There is uncertainty in her face. Her eyes are darting to him and to the pillow, unsure of where to look, as she sits up on her side of the carpet. She inhales deeply, audibly, and exhales as loudly. "Please forgive me."

For what -

Altaïr instinctively puts a hand between them as suddenly Ambra drops her head to him, almost like she is going to head-butt him. But he freezes as their lips touch, and he holds himself back from laughing at her method. She seems to notice his pursed lips, and immediately pulls back, looking like she has been scalded by hot water.

"I'm glad I'm still yours," she blurts out with the red hue adorning her face. "I've been meaning to say this during our argument, but I couldn't bring myself to, I-it's not my place - but -" she clears her throat and takes another deep breath. "I...indulged in our kiss not as a servant. I thought you were - I don't know - I think, since we're going to be like this until death, then there's no one better than you." She is as red as her sash now, lips quivering and eyes looking at him almost sternly, and she says, "I'm ready."

His smirk grows as he watches her courage slowly fades away. He props himself up on his elbows, "Where does this come from?"

"I swear, no one pushes me to do this." She replies quickly.

He observes her feature. She is not lying, so far. He can still remember the event of their kiss, recalling the moment when she lifted her head to kiss him - and oh how close they were going to do it, if only there was no interruption.

She bites her bottom lip, out of being nervous than being seductive, but the motion attracts his eyes. He lifts a hand to tuck her hair to the back of her ear, "Are you being a servant right now? Performing your duty?" He asks quietly, careful with his tone of voice, in case she takes it as an offense.

Her reply comes in the form of groaning, and she drops her face to the pillow. He hears her huffing loudly, body tensing as if screaming inwardly, and he is confused as to what gets her. But soon she raises her head, face deeply red, as she blurts out almost loudly, "No - I can't hold back - ever since we kissed, I get strange feelings, and I don't know why -"

He grabs the sides of her head, and quickly sits up, bringing her with him. She stutters, very much nervous from the stiff body, and her face is burning. "Look at me," he says calmly, despite the thrumming heart in his chest. She looks at him, the emerald orbs widen as his golden ones are looking intently. "Take a deep breath."

She does as ordered, inhaling deeply and exhaling. He lets her repeat it numerous time until she seems relaxed than before.

"Let me rephrase that." He says. "You were saying you wish us to continue from where we left off because you have the urge?"

"If thats what it's called, yes." Her voice comes out timidly.

"And you wish to do so out of your own will? No one is forcing you to? Not even Malik or Al-Mu'alim?"

"Yes, no one." She replies again.

His eyes narrowed at her, "And if I refuse?"

She bites her bottom lip again, voice breaking as she speaks. "Please?"

How can he say no to such broken composure? She looks almost sinful like this. There is a limit to how much a man can take, and he can say he is at his limit of staving off his sexual need. He knows imagining her while relieving himself will lead him to wanting more, yet he indulges nonetheless, and look now. At least he is not the only one affected, the feelings are mutual, apparently. Now he wonders if she indulges in self relief while thinking of him - well, if she has not burst out of embarrassment, he might ask her that.

"On one condition, Ambra." He adds, holding himself back from stealing a kiss from her, "when we do it, indulge not as a servant and master, but as a man and woman. Do you understand?"

Her face feels hotter to touch, "Yes, Altaïr."

Very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOT WHOOOT.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOOOO BOY. Hold onto your panties, ladies and gents, cause this is getting smutty!
> 
> I'd like to blame Francisco Randez for being so utterly gorgeous. Fucking hell, he looks ravishing in Cheval Serpent! And have you seen Altaïr damtoys yet? I STRONGLY SUGGEST TO GOOGLE IT CAUSE DAMN there goes my ovaries.

Well, now what?

If he were bedding a courtesan, they'd know what to do, and he could act on instinct. But Ambra is not one, and she is not experienced in this. "Wait," he tells her as he stands up and heads to the wardrobe. First thing to prepare, cedar oil, he reminds himself. Neither of them are prepared to have an offspring yet, and he would very much try to avoid that. He takes the wooden container from the wardrobe and brings it back to the carpet.

"How...what should I do?" Ambra asks, thoroughly confused as he sits down beside her.

He looks at her, "Just trust me." He lies her back down onto the carpet, secured under the fur blanket. His hand moves to the back of her head, holding the base of her hair, and his other hand guides one of her hand to his neck. He chuckles at her expression - well, this is a new experience, he thinks.

"Altaïr." She pouts at his action, blush spreads thoroughly.

"I barely did anything yet." He smirks amusedly as she smacks his shoulder playfully, certainly his words have brought back that memory for her. He leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead, then glides down to kiss the tip of her nose, and he watches as her eyes flutter open and close at the action. He glides downward again, passing her lips, and she whimpers. He presses a kiss to the corner of her lips.

He raises his head a bit, finding her emerald orbs looking at him, pupils blown wide. He decides to end her suffering and lean forward to kiss her.

 

This is certainly new, Ambra thinks, a thought that immediately bursts into blank as he kisses her. She sighs, feeling him kissing her gently, as if gauging her reaction. His lips - she will never get tired of those lips, they always find another way to render her immobile as they touch hers. He is still being so gentle, despite the drumming heartbeat in his chest, pressing down to her breasts.

She runs her hand to the back of his head, grabbing a bunch of his dark locks, and tugs them slightly. He lets out a grunt - is this where he favored the most? She wonders. Then she grabs tighter, and he mimics the action with his own hand, clenching on the back of her neck, and she whimpers.

The kiss gradually builds up in speed and pressure. She can taste him, salty from the dinner. He lets out a grunt for every small sound that she emits. His hand has abandoned the side of her face, now gliding and kneading against her shoulder, and she shudders at the pressure he gives against her sore muscle. She brings her other hand to copy the motion, now gliding from his shoulder to his arm, feeling his strong muscle.

When his hand glides down and grazes her side, she jumps in surprise. He lets go of her lips briefly, "What?"

"Ticklish." She replies - oh no, she watches his expression turns wickedly. "Wait, Altaïr!" But the rest of her words turns into a laughter as his hand opts to tickle the side of her breast. She squirms, pushing him away, but he simply laughs deeply and presses a kiss to her lips.

"Hush... We don't want another interruption, do we?" He mutters before kissing her again. Yet his hand still glides down her sides, and she lets out a muffled giggle against his kiss.  
Against her breathy laughter, she feels his teeth nibbling on her lower lip, and she hisses loudly. Her hand hold onto his hair for dear life, while the other one grips onto his arm, feeling his muscle from the fabric. He finally stops tickling her, and she sighs in relief, only to tense again as it moves down to her hip.

Altaïr has returned to kissing her deeply, tongue delving into her mouth, and she shudders as it massages her own. He tilts her head to another side, grunting, his knees parting her legs - and she gasps as he rests on top of her. There is a hardness between his legs, pressing against her womanhood, and she blushes upon knowing what it really is. The hand holding her hips drags her closer, tilting it upwards, and she involuntarily bucks.

He lets out a growl, lifting his head up slightly. "Ambra..." How can he make her moan from simply calling her name? He kisses along her jawline, before planting a gentle kiss to her ear - and suddenly he nibbles on her ear, rendering her yelping and squirming.

The sensation is foreign, a bit ticklish, but also sending jolts of pleasure to her lower half. She tries to bite back her moan, finding it too vulgar to be spoken out loud, but he teases harder. He brings both of his hands to her sides, not tickling, thankfully, and kneads just under her breasts. She throws her head back at the sensation, and she yelps as he peppers kisses down her neck. Too much, she holds his arms for support, but he simply laughs breathily against the crook of her neck.

When he bites her, though, it is unexpected.

She feels his canines against the skin of her neck. Not painful, not uncomfortable, just pure bliss and ticklish as he swipes his tongue over the bite mark. Then she feels him pulling the collar of her tunic to trail his tongue downward, alternating between biting and licking, down to her collarbone, where he is sucking onto the skin, tongue sweeping now and then. She can feel his stubble, rough against her sensitive skin, and the scar over his lips, and - "AH!" she jumps as he suddenly rolls his hips forward.

He looks up at her, pupils blown wide, but that mischievous smirk is evident. He looks almost predatory, eyes not leaving hers as he rolls his hips again - and she gasps loudly at the sensation. Her womanhood is trembling, ignited, like a low fire burning in her belly. He repeats the motion, slower this time, and she tries to close her legs from the intense pleasure it brings her. He repeats three more times, still oh so slowly, and she is lost in moaning and panting shamelessly in front of him.

"Altaïr -" she cannot finish the sentence as he rolls his clothed hips one more time, rendering her throwing her head backwards, biting her lower lip to prevent another moan coming from her throat.

He suddenly sits up, bringing her with him, and she automatically holds herself up with her arms. She watches him pulling onto the hem of his tunic. Her breath hitches as he pulls it upwards, slightly, only to pause. His eyes are not leaving her as he leans to kiss her again, a bit hurriedly, before they part. He lifts his tunic off of himself - oh my, she swallows her breath.

Without his tunic, she can see clearly the way his chest heaves as he pants. A thin layer of sweat clings on his skin, and she trails her gaze down his chest to his abdomen, taking note of every single scar, before glancing to the dark trail of hair down his navel. When she flicks her eyes back to him, he is smirking smugly, "Having indecent thought?" He says before pulling her for another kiss.

Now where is she supposed to hold onto? She raises her hands to his shoulders, holding tightly there. But it is not enough. She glides her hands to his chest, feeling the grunts and the beating of his heart, and the slickness of his skin. His smell - musk? - is intoxicating. She is lost in the sensation, not realizing that he is pulling the hem of her tunic upwards.

He suddenly pushes her back down to the carpet, and she gasps in surprise. Firstly, because of the sudden action, secondly, because her abdomen is revealed to the air. Her face is burning as he ducks his head down to her waist, and she yelps as he bites gently. Her hands move to his hair, tugging him away, warning him that she cannot hold the sensation. But he simply pushes her tunic more and more, until her breasts are exposed.

 

If only she can see herself right now - Altaïr is tempted to rip the tunic off of her, but opts to tugs it off from her head. Her arms are raised above her head, and he smirks at how vulnerable she looks. She looks up at him, eyes locking with his golden ones, and lips trembling as if unsure of what to say.

He is a sadist for enjoying that look on her face, or the sharp intake of breath as he runs his hand from her hip to her waist, and to the underside of her breast. He enjoys it even more as he rolls his erection against her womanhood, as she lets out a broken moaning, mouth drops to a perfect O. With her arms still tangled with her tunic, he pins her down to the pillow, right above her head. The purple mark he has left on her collarbone will be the first, and he intends to mark her more. She gasps his name as he starts kissing down the center of her breasts, sucking a mark there.

She is practically squirming and moaning under his touch. His hand moves to knead her breast, and she pants out his name. Break her, is his initial thought, and that is what he would like to do. His fingers begin to play with her nipple - and that simple motion sends her shivering, moaning, a mess under him.

His mouth moves to kiss her other breast, peppering it with soft kisses and gentle bites, and an occasional mark here and there. When he captures her nipple in his mouth - now that is when she bucks sharply.

Her arms are begging to be released, but he has no intention to do so. A wide grin breaks on his face as he toys with her nipple, sucking it, rolling the bud with his tongue, testing her reaction. He bites gently and tugs, and her chest raises with him. He repeats the motion with his hand to her other breast, and soon she is reduced to moaning and panting, with his name falling from her lips like a prayer, on and on again.

 

Ambra's mind is blank, replaced with the image of Altaïr on her breasts, and the sensation it sends throughout her body. Keep an eye on him, she reminds herself, but finding the action too...vulgar. The look in his eyes as he tugs her nipple to his direction, the smirk on his lips, the messy state of his hair - "Altaïr, please!" She gasps.

"Hmm?" He pulls on her nipple and releases it, an appreciative smile on his face as he adores the mess he has made of her. He looks at her, "More?"

She involuntarily tightens her legs, and he takes it as an answer. He leans to her face, kissing her deeply, finally releasing her pinned arms, only to bring both of his hands to roam around her torso. She wraps her own hands around his neck, pulling him tightly. She releases a breath she does not know she has been holding, now gasping for air against his lips.

She feels his hands glide down to her trousers, one of them is untying the knot, and the other slides into the side. She opens her eyes, but unable to form words as he slides her trousers down her lower abdomen. His hand that has slid in is now holding her bottom, kneading gently, fingers trailing closer to her inner thigh.

He suddenly pulls back, removing his hands from her, and she is surprised as he stands up. But he says nothing, as he unties his trousers and slides it down with quick motion. Her eyes widen at the sight of his manhood. How erect it is, how...foreign, and intimidating to look at. And that is supposed to go inside me?

He kicks his trousers to the side, now kneeling back to the carpet, and he tugs her trousers down swiftly. He tosses them aside, eyes glancing at her lower half, while she gasps as cold air assaults her inner thighs. He notices her discomfort, and chuckles, as he brings the blanket up to cover them again.  
With him lying on top of her, propped up on his elbows, their eyes lock with each other.

"Are you sure about this?" He asks.

"Yes - but," she quickly adds as he is about to lean to kiss her again, "q-question, Altaïr."

"Hmm..." He moves to the crook of her neck. Their chests are touching - and oh Heavens - his body is made of hard planes and warmth. He kisses just behind her ear, inhaling deeply. Voice raspy and laced with lust as he speaks, "Not a good time for that, but do ask."

Well... It is difficult to concentrate on the question when he is peppering kisses to her neck, and his manhood is resting against her thighs, lying so close to her womanhood. "Is it - Altaïr - waaaiiit -" she hears him chuckling at her broken composure, and she smacks his chest lightly. "Is it painful?"

He raises his head and kisses her cheek, "Do you trust me?"

"Very much so, yes."

"Then relax. I'll be gentle."

 

Calm down, you idiot. Altaïr tells himself, inhaling the scent of her hair deeply, trying to keep himself grounded, despite his urge to just push forward into her. It is difficult - this is different compared to when he was with the courtesans. He knows they can take whatever he gives, but to Ambra - be gentle and careful. Who knows what reaction she will give to him?

He kisses her briefly, "Don't hold back."

She looks confused at first, but then her eyes widen as he trails his fingers down her pubic bone. With his hips parting her legs open, she is vulnerable to him. He feels the coarse hair down below, and continues downward, where the warmth originated - his breath nearly hitches as he feels her womanhood.

When his fingers part her folds, she whimpers loudly, both of her arms are gripping onto his shoulders. "Hush... Look at me." He says, and she obeys. Careful, careful, careful, he reminds himself, searching her face for signs of discomfort. His fingers caress her inner folds gently, and she shudders, eyes threatening to flutter close.

The moisture that leaks out of her is warm, but not enough. He moves his middle finger to her opening, caressing gently, feeling how wet she has gotten gradually. She bites her bottom lip, trembling as he circles her opening, still teasing.

She gasps as he brings his fingers to the hardening nub above the opening. He kisses her once, then parts slightly, only to move his fingers against the nub slowly, dragging an earnest moan out of her. She is beautiful like this - the beginning of her broken innocence - and he takes pride on himself for making her like this. He keeps his fingers moving slowly, keeps on building the pace, building her need for more.

"Do you want me to stop?" He asks, knowing very well the answer is no.

She shakes her head, "N-no. Please..." Her voice breaks into soft moaning.

He changes the motion, now circling the nub - and he does not expect her to moan that loud. She is surprised at her own voice, hands immediately hold her mouth closed. But he raises an eyebrow at her, warning her. "No holding back. No one can hear us in this storm." He says calmly as his fingers are still circling her nub.

 

Ambra fights not to draw blood on his arms, and eventually relents as her hands grip the pillows under her head, anything is better to hold onto at this moment. Her lower half is screaming, trembling, all caused by the delicious motion that is Altaïr's fingers. She pants loudly, feeling her womanhood clenching involuntarily.

He does it for what seems like eternity, stealing a kiss now and then, swallowing her cries of pleasure. She raises a trembling hand to caress his jawline, feeling his stubble, desperately trying to keep her composure. But he catches her intention, smirking devilishly, as he lowers his head to her breast.

"AH!" Her cries are louder as he tugs on her hardened nipple. At the same time, he speeds up his fingers, rubbing back and forth now against her hardened nub. She cannot control herself as her thighs clench around his waist, or as her moaning gets labored, louder and vocal. She breathes his name over and over again, feeling the tightening in her stomach, the rapid heartbeat, the sweat running down her thighs - and the way he looks at her from above her breasts, mouth still latches onto one of them. She is losing control, so close to breaking -

Then he stops altogether. Fingers pressing against her nub, but unmoving. She whimpers, almost not believing the sound she makes.

He kisses her before speaking, chuckling deeply, "Calm down, Ambra."

She huffs, "Why did you stop?"

He licks his lips, a playful smile appears. "No reason."

And she jumps back into a fitful of moaning as his fingers continue their assault against her clit. This time with more pressure, but keeping the speed as fast as before, and soon she feels the knot forming again, tighter than before. She claws on the pillows, head thrashes to the side, too embarrassed to look at him. He simply lowers his head to her neck, pressing a kiss there.

She is close to breaking again. It is foreign to her. She cannot keep her eyes open, mouth cannot form a coherent word other than his name, her whole body feels trembling, her own heart beats so loud in her ribcage.

And again, he stops.

 

By now, Altaïr is certain he is a sadist.

He watches her whimpering loudly at the loss of the sensation. Her emerald eyes opening to look at him - the gaze is sultry, demanding, broken - everything he has hoped to achieve from her. "Altaïr..." Her voice is even more broken.

He tuts, slowly rubbing her very hardened nub, eliciting soft 'ah' from her. "Do you need something?" He purrs over her, feeling her breasts against his chest whenever she breathes deeply.

"Please, Altaïr, please don't stop." She begs - that is a progress.

"Why?" He asks, still rubbing slowly, alternating between slow strokes to a quick one. She groans in response, and he chuckles. "Alright, alright. Just one more."

He presses the tip of his middle finger to her opening, barely pushing in, only touching. And yet, she bucks against him. He grits his teeth, feeling her womanhood trying to suck him in. She is soaking wet and so ready down there, but he is not ready to stop teasing her just yet.

By Heaven, her expression is precious to look at. His middle finger enters her opening slowly, and he can feel the rough texture of her inner walls, how wet it is, and hot to touch. When she clenches, he goes rigid for a few seconds before moving in deeper. Until his finger is buried deep inside her. He sits up to have a better view of her - and does he ever see any view better than this...

She is spread open and ready for him, with the emerald orbs gazing longingly at him, and the hardened peaks of her breasts. The messy hair and her hands clutching onto the pillows for support. He pulls his finger out of her - she whimpers - and when he pushes back in slowly, she gasps.

He tests her reaction, probing around her inner walls, while his other hand presses her hips down to the carpet. His thumb moves to her nub, flicking it gently while moving his middle finger in and out of her. She is at the edge, he can sense it, from the way her body reacts to every little movement he makes. When he shifts his focus, he sees her golden hue radiating. Then he moves both of his hands faster, and the result is wonderful.

His name falls from her lips faster and faster, between the gasps and the broken moans. She throws her head backwards, releasing a long moan - then suddenly she jerks upwards, eyes closing, consistently moaning, as her womanhood clenches and trembles against his finger. She is breaking - he hisses at the sight, at the state he makes her in. The blinding golden hue that radiates off of her. Her moaning falls into small, soft mewling, as his thumb has not stopped toying with her nub. She falls slowly back onto the carpet, thighs trembling, and chest heaving. And he will keep this in mind.

 

Ambra has never felt so lost before, and now she is unsure of what just happened. Her mind was blank for a few seconds, almost like she passes out, yet still conscious. She can still feel Altaïr's fingers trying to spark another reaction from her - and her body betrays her mind, as she feels another knot forming in her belly.

She raises a hand, begging for him stop. Thankfully he does, now moving to hover over her, and holds her tightly. She cannot form a word, cannot even hear what he says until he whispers it in her ear, "Are you alright?"

Is she alright? She feels so light and hazy. Her heart beats too fast in her ribcage, her breathing is too labored, and why is it so hot in here? She finds him searching for an answer in her eyes, and she swallows, "Y-yes..."

He kisses her, and she sighs. The broken knot in her abdomen is threatening to form a new, and she wants it, by Heaven, she needs it. She licks his lips between kisses, then moves to nibble onto his lower lip, happily does so without resistance from him. Her hands are moving from his shoulders, down to his chest, earning a deep growl from him. She brings them lower to his abdomen - and he catches one of her hand, finally catching up with her intention.

"You're a quick learner." He huffs a laughter.

"I have a good instructor." She kisses him.

He brings her hand upwards to his neck, "The main deed is not done yet, Ambra."

She watches him opening the wooden container of the cedar oil. His fingers delve into the thick substance, bringing drops of oil between their bodies. She looks down between them where he wraps his fingers around his hardened manhood - around the wide, reddened head, and along the shaft. She swallows nervously, still wondering how it will fit her.

"Lie down and relax." He nudges her to lie down. She looks up at him, breathing in. This is it, she forces her body to relax.

He pushes her legs up, opening her more, and she blushes at the position. This is too vulnerable, too open. His hand guides his manhood to her opening. She jumps and yelps as she feels something foreign poking her nub - he grins wolfishly, and she giggles at his display of playfulness. A giggle that soon turns into a breathy moan as he guides his manhood lower, and he nudges forward gently.

She hisses at the sensation. Something foreign is entering her, and it stretches her womanhood. He stops, thankfully, and she looks down between their bodies. There is still a lot more to slide in - she looks up to him, huffing, "Can't you control the size?"

He frowns at her question, "What?"

"It hurts a bit." She elaborates. Even when he is pausing to let her adjust, it still feels uncomfortable.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he does so, "No - it doesn't work like that." His voice sounds a bit strained. She yelps as he pushes her knees further up her chest, opening her more. "You're too tight -"

Her breath is knocked out of her lungs as he nudges forward again. The cedar oil mixes with her moisture, helping him slide in. But he hisses mid-thrust and stops. She grips onto the pillow with all of her might, trying to assess what her womanhood is doing right now, and when it will be comfortable. She recalls the courtesans saying sex is very pleasurable, especially with good companions, but this is hardly relaxing for her.

"Could you...relax?" Altaïr asks through gritted teeth.

"I'm trying to..." She closes her eyes and exhales deeply. It is difficult, truly difficult, to concentrate while her bottom half is being impaled.

He suddenly pulls out, and the sensation sends her yelping again. He huffs loudly, "I should warn you that the first time is usually painful." He sits up, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his arm. He grabs the cedar oil again, this time rubbing more on his manhood. He covers his fingers in the substance and wipes it on her opening, a finger entering her easily, then suddenly he moves it faster.

"Altaïr!" She calls before the moaning takes in. With the lubricated finger, she finds it more suitable to her womanhood. She can feel him moving in and out of her, then suddenly she feels another finger, and the feeling, albeit foreign, is blissful. She bucks against his fingers, moaning gets louder as he twists them mid-thrust.

The knot is forming in her abdomen, but he already removes his fingers, wiping the excess substance around her womanhood. "That should do it." He mutters before repositioning himself above her.

She looks at him, feeling his manhood pressing in more successfully than before. It feels different. Her walls are fluttering around him, and it feels great to her, in fact, she needs more. He is sliding in gently, bit by bit. She watches as his eyes are closing, brows furrowing, how blissful he looks as he grunts and moves deeper into her. That is when she feels something different.

She exhales a moan that she has been holding, throwing her head back, as the tip of his manhood caresses something deep inside her. It sends her stomach flipping, and her hardened nub suddenly tingles. Unfortunately, he still slides in, now resting his chest on her breasts, growling in her ear. Suddenly he pushes sharply until their hips are connected together, and the feeling weakens her.

He lowers his head to her, hissing, as he kisses her sloppily. She cannot reply the action, however, too concentrated on the feeling. She feels full and stretched. Her womanhood is trembling on its own. "I'm going to move." He says, then pulls out, rendering her groaning. He pulls out completely before plunging back in slowly, and that is when she begins to understand what the courtesans meant.

The in and out motion is set at slow pace, but the noises that she makes are hard to control. She needs to hold him, and he seems to take the hint. His hands intertwine with hers, holding her down, and his lips grace her with open mouth kisses. Then he quickens the pace, and she is a moaning mess beneath him.

 

Altaïr cannot hold back anymore. This is more than an imagination, this is reality. Her womanhood is holding onto him for dear life - and she is almost completely broken. He pulls back from kissing her, enjoying the look on her face as she moans breathlessly, each sharp take of breath is knocked out as he bottoms down into her.

He sits up to angle his thrust upwards, taking her legs to rest on his shoulders, and she lets out the most delicious sound he ever heard. She runs a hand through her own hair, eyes closing, and mouth agape as he tries a new pace: relentless. She claws onto the pillows helplessly, and honestly, he would like to gauge the reaction out of her.

"Look at me," he orders, voice lower than his usual tone.

"I - ah - can't..." Her eyes flutter open, only to close again from what he is doing to her bottom half. He slows down, then moving in closer to her, still having her legs in front of his chest, and he leans down to her. Her womanhood is tighter like this, and pretty sure she can feel him better than before. Their faces are so close to each other, but not enough to kiss.

"Open your eyes and focus on me." He tells her breathily.

She does as instructed - and if that look does not spark something mischievous inside him, he does not know what else. He starts moving a bit faster this time, and she already struggles to keep her eyes open.

He sets out a rhythm. A few shallow trusts, then deep ones, followed by slow thrusts, then quick ones. Soon her eyes are closing again, mouth forming an O as she breathes, and finally, he adds a rotation of his hips. She gasps loudly, hands grabbing onto his arms. "Please..."

He can get used to her begging.

He sets out a relentless pace again, rotating his hips now and then, sending her squirming and practically screaming. His name is her prayer. He is certain without the noisy storm, the whole fortress would have heard her voice. He lowers her legs slightly to bring his fingers to her hardened nub, and with a teasing smirk, he rubs it in circular motion.

There is no word to describe the state she is in right now. Practically at his mercy, with her breasts bouncing from each thrust he is giving, her walls clenching tighter and tighter, and his manhood that manages to break her innocence - he huffs and fastens his fingers against her nub.

When she completely breaks, the sound she makes as she shatters is so beautiful.

"A...Altaïr..." His name escapes her lips almost inaudibly. She has jerked upwards again. He lowers her legs and moves closer to kiss her. Tasting his name on her lips. Dragging out another moan as he rolls his hips with a slower pace.

Yes, he can certainly get used to this.

 

Ambra cannot form a coherent thought. Before she can gather herself from the sudden orgasm, Altaïr has set out another pace to claim another one. This time he is kissing her, lips not leaving her face, peppering kisses to her cheek and eventually her ear. She needs to hold him, and so she does, wrapping her arms around his neck.

She enjoys the sound that he makes. The grunting and panting, and when he calls her name, "Ambra..." just like that, it melts her. His hips slap harder, creating a noise in the room, but it is the sensation of when he hits the deepest part of her that really sends her flying.

Then suddenly he tugs her hands down, pinning them above her head with one hand. It takes her by surprise. Is this what it means by 'dominating'? A smirk is etched on his lips, tugging his scar with it, as his other hand moves to lift one of her legs to his shoulder. The new angle perfectly hits the spot that sends sparks to her brain.

She is a mess, she knows it. The knot is forming and it is tighter than before. Too tight, that her abdomen clenches in response. She can feel her heart beats rapidly, the blood rushes to her head, the breath gets knocked out of her lungs. And she breaks again under his reign. Her body jolts upwards involuntarily, before finally drops to the carpet helplessly, boneless, and spent.

But he is still keeping the same relentless pace, and she finds herself unable to assess the situation anymore. Too overwhelmed to think, or to open her eyes, or to breathe. She squirms against his hold, "Altaïr..." She calls once, but he keeps pounding. She tries to swallow her breath and calls again, "Al - AH! - Altaïr!"

He takes the hint, but without slowing down, he speaks, "What was that?"

She is glad at least he is also affected by their activity. His voice is even deeper than before, sounding like a growl.

"I...can't think." She manages through her moan.

He circles his hips and she turns her head to the side to bite onto the pillow. "Louder, Ambra." He chuckles - oh how devious...

She swallows her moan, "I can't think!" She exclaims desperately, before returning to bite the pillow, a helpless notion as he angles his thrust upwards to that sweet spot, and again, his pace is still relentless. "Please, Altaïr, I can't - I can't think - ah! - please!"

He growls, and somehow she regrets saying the words out loud. Because the next thing he does is replying her, "You. Don't. Have. To. Think." Each words spoken at the same time as he thrusts deeper and sharper into her, before continuing the same relentless pace with a twist that he knows as her weakness. When he leans forward to her, his pubic bone rubs against her hardened nub, and it sends delicious pleasure down below. He presses a kiss to her, almost forcefully, before speaking huskily. "Let me do the thinking."

She breaks without warning.

 

Altaïr does not know which one is better: being able to see her break for the fourth time, or being able to live his imagination. His own orgasm is teetering on the edge, but greedily, he needs her to break again. She will not be able to walk tomorrow, he smirks at his own thought, good thing we'll be on a horse.

He watches as she begins to lose herself. Her eyes are closed, but the moaning is there, weaker than before, and hoarser. How utterly beautiful, broken and shattered. He rolls his hips, and she gasps sharply.

"No more..." She pants.

He releases her pinned hands, now leaning down to kiss her. She brings her hands to his neck, pulling on his hair, as his tongue dances with hers, stealing her breath away. One of his hands is moving to caress her abandoned breasts - ah there she is - it sends her alive again.

"Altaïr... Please..." It is a broken sob. If he does not know any better, he'd assume she is in pain. But he has seen the same reaction from the courtesans, and it is more like a desperate attempt to tell him that she is overwhelmed by the sensation. He rolls his hips again, and she screams to the ceiling.

He bites her shoulder gently, enjoying the sound she makes, and the indentation it leaves on her skin. He is getting closer to the edge, hips stuttering and rhythm faltering, as she clenches tightly.

He pushes her legs to open further, and oh how close she is to breaking again. She finally opens her eyes, bottom lip rolled into her mouth, hands grabbing the sides of his face. He growls deeply, "I'm close..." He hisses, and captures her lips.

"P-please..." Is all she can manage.

"Look at me -" he grunts as he tries to hold back just a little longer.

Her gaze is hazy, eyes ready to close. But the emerald orbs are locking with his golden orbs, and she sighs his name over and over again, and he kisses her possessively, claiming each of every broken moans she gives. Until she finally breaks, womanhood trembles tightly - and -

And he nearly forgets to pull out. When he does, he growls out her name as he reaches his destination. Body shuddering as his manhood releases his own liquid onto her stomach and breasts. Her eyes are watching intently, almost in disbelief.

But his own eyes are raking over her body - his white and thick liquid gliding down her breasts to her stomach, purple marks adorn her shoulders and breasts, and a small bite mark on the side of her waist and one on her shoulder. Her lips are swollen from the kisses. The sweat is layering her skin, and her womanhood is stained wet. When their eyes meet, the gentle gaze behind those emerald orbs are evident, but void of ulterior motives. She has been broken and now she is being built again.

 

Ambra is exhausted. It feels like a training - no, this is either worse or better than a training. Her body is trembling in the cold as Altaïr has stood up to fetch something from the wardrobe, and she is unable to move, not wanting to spill...whatever it is on her torso. It smells so strong, almost like his sweat - ah, this smells similar to his musk.

He returns bringing a cup of water, a wet rag and a dry one. The water is highly appreciated by her, and she downs it immediately. Looking at him naked, it does not strike her at first, but without his clothes, he appears slender and less bulky. Her gaze drops to his softened manhood, hanging between his legs, wet and glistening with either her moisture or his. He sighs as he sits down beside her, wiping the liquid from her torso.

"I can do that on my own," she tells him hoarsely.

He smiles, "Of course you can." But he cleans the liquid thoroughly, then throws the soiled rag into the fire of the brazier. He then wipes downward to her womanhood, and she involuntarily jerks against his touch. "Hungry for more, Ambra?"

"No! No - you startled me." She whimpers as he wipes the excess cedar oil from her womanhood - and he is being thorough, until she does not feel as sticky as before.

Then he wipes his own manhood, and when he is done, he throws the rag into the fire too. Oh the room is going to smell horrible, she thinks, cringing.

Altaïr has pulled up his trousers from the scattered pile of clothes on the floor. He stands up to put it on. She looks around to find hers, finally finding them near his feet. She tries to sit up to grab it, but her core muscle suddenly trembles, and she falls to the side, onto the pillows.

He chuckles at her failed attempt, "It happens. You're sore, don't force yourself."

"But it's cold." She rolls to her side, forcing herself to get closer to her clothes, only to find him kicking them further. "Hey -"

"I think I like you like this." He hums in reply before lying down on the carpet. His bare chest smells like his sweat and musk, and he pulls her to him.

Shyly, she rests her head on his warm chest, and her legs are curled up with his own. "We could catch a cold." She murmurs.

"No, we won't." He mutters in reply, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "How was that for your first time?"

Oh must he ask that now? She buries her head to his chest, earning an honest laugh from him. "It's good, actually. I don't know..."

He tuts at her choice of words, "If I recall correctly, you were enjoying it tremendously."

"As you were," she pokes his side, and chuckles. "It was wonderful, Altaïr, thank you." She looks up at him, and he automatically leans down to kiss her.

He looks at her amusedly, "You know that this means you need to prepare for things like this in the future, don't you?"

She tenses, and he laughs at it. "Y-yes, of course." Oh my, she can barely move from this one activity, and there is more to be had? Especially after knowing how relentless he can be, she wonders if she can walk the next day.

"Good. Should either of us has the urge, do inform each other." He sighs contently. "Good night, Ambra."

She suppresses a tight smile, "Good night, Altaïr."


	22. Chapter 22

The storm must have stopped sometime in the night, because when Altaïr opens his eyes, it is very quiet. The fire in the brazier is burning low, though the oil lamp on the ceiling still provides adequate lighting. His room somewhat smells like pine trees and juniper - oh right, he looks down at the mess of dark locks resting on his chest.

Ambra is still asleep, too soundly, that when he moves her aside, she does not even budge. He sits up and stretches, trying to make out how many hours he has slept, and if it is morning yet. The cold air nips his skin, and he decides more fire is essential to his room, especially since one of them is sleeping naked.

He observes as she is lying flat on her back, never has he seen her sleep like that. One hand is resting over her stomach, and the other is on the pillow. Her chest raises and lowers with each take of breath. He smirks at the marks he has left on her body, now darker in color, though the indentation of his teeth has vanished completely. He looks at her face, a pure peace, exhausted from the looks of it.

He stands up to fill the brazier with more firewood, sighing contently from the warmth. He is not the only one enjoying it, he catches her stir around and turns to her side, back facing him. The blanket covers her lower half.

There is still at least two hours until it is time to wake up. The guards are not changing shift yet, and he can still hear the faint exchange of words between them even from three stories high. Good, he can use more sleep. He lies back down on the carpet and pulls the blanket up, then rolls to his side to spoon her, pulling her back flush against his chest.

She hums idly that soon fades into a deep breath. He wraps his arm around her waist, resting it on her belly. This is enjoyable, he thinks to himself. His mind brings him a view of what their future might be, with their daily lives as assassins, and their night lives like this. He smiles against her hair, Al-Mu'alim was right, he does need someone in his life.

 

Morning comes as a surprise for Ambra. She is confused as to why she is looking at the walls, did I roll around last night? Then her instinct kicks in as she feels warmness plastered on her back, and a heavy arm around her waist. She takes hold of Altaïr's hand unconsciously, and sighs in relief as reality claims her when she feels the stub of his ring finger.

You are safe, she reminds herself, caressing his stub for comfort, to remind her that it is Altaïr behind her. For a second, she is trying to shake off the sleepiness from her head, though the exhaustion is lingering there - and by Allah, her bottom half feels sore. Of course it is, with the size of him, she will be surprised if she wakes up alright.

Altaïr wakes up with a deep sigh, "What are you doing?" His sleepy voice is laced with amusement, rumbling through his chest to her back.

She turns gently to look at him, face immediately blushes as she is met with his bare chest, and she averts her eyes to look at him. The golden orbs are lazily opening and closing, his lips tug into a smirk, and that scar completes his look. "Good morning." She greets.

He hums, "Good morning." He leans down to plant a kiss on her lips, and she grins afterwards.

She likes him like this, more relaxed, calm, and open. She puts her hand on his neck and silently asks for more kisses.

He complies with a chuckle, "We have somewhere to go, remember?" He kisses her once more before parting, and that is when she feels the bulge in the front of his pants, poking her stomach. Her eyes widen - does he want more of last night? She is not sure that she can cope with that. He notices her expression and his situation as well, "It's normal. Don't worry." He moves his hips away from her before rolling to his back, sighing at the ceiling. "We should get ready. At this time, we might as well take a bath and have breakfast before leaving."

She stretches before sitting up gingerly, groaning at the delicious soreness of her abdomen and womanhood. He follows, sitting up behind her, running his warm hand on her cold back. She shudders as he kneads her lower back, "What about the training?"

"Hmm? Let Malik worry about that." He finally removes his hand from her, now he stands up to fetch his discarded tunic.

She staggers when she stands up, thighs quivering, but she insists, leaning against the wall until she is stabilized. "Is this common too after sex?" She asks as she straightens herself.

He slides in his tunic, a smug look on his face. "It is when you're with me."

Now she understands why the courtesans are eager for his visitation. She chuckles at his remark before heading to collect her clothes. Her trousers are discarded under the table, thanks to him. She finds her tunic first and starts putting it on.

Altaïr has retrieved his and her clean clothes from the wardrobe when she is pulling her trousers from under the table with her toes. She puts them on while watching him putting on his boots with one hand. It does not come to her immediately, but only now she realizes the heavy smell of musk in the room, partially concealed with the scent of pine trees and juniper, and the strong earthen smell of burning woods. "Do you think the others would know?" She asks worriedly, pulling up her trousers.

"They've been assuming for months. Although, I hope they overheard us last night, just so they'll shut their mouth for once." He replies, tugging the strap of his boots closely.  
She approaches him, wincing at the slight discomfort in her lower body. She slips on her boots quickly, strapping the top strap only, and accepts her clean clothes from him. The smug look on his face is still there, but when they step out of the room, his face falls into the usual mask of calm composure.

The storm from last night has brought thick layer of snow upon Masyaf. So far, she has not seen many assassins coming out of the warmness of their rooms, only the stationed guards who are stubbornly waiting for their change of shift. Even the bathhouse is empty from the usual workers. At least she is glad to have privacy in the chamber of the bathhouse, while Altaïr, from the last time she sees him, is taking over the big main pool for himself.

Being submerged under cold water has never felt so good for Ambra, but this time, her body is enjoying the cool comfort it offers for her aching region. Her arms and calves are still sore from the training yesterday, now her abdomen and thighs as well. Last night was a rather intimate experience, she recalls the details shyly, face burning despite the cooling water. It still amazes her that her body is capable to fit something that size without being cut in half.

She cannot indulge in the water for too long, however, as she remembers there is still a long journey to be had. Hayyiz. She focuses on the target's name as she gets dressed. Is he still the same man she last saw on the mill? The same arrogant merchant with air of dismissiveness who rather enjoyed watching the slaves being tortured? The same man who brands the slaves he sells - Ambra flinches as she ties her sash too tightly, still recalling Hayyiz's face angrily. She steps out of the bathhouse rather quickly.

Altaïr is already in the room, putting on his belt swiftly, when she enters. "Go get dressed, and then meet me at the dining hall. I have to visit the armory first." He informs, attaching his sword to the belt.

"Yes, Altaïr." She replies, putting on the belt over her sash.

He finishes putting on his armbraces, how quick, she inwardly comments. He takes a large empty pouch from the wardrobe, and she watches as he heads to the shelf and fills the pouch with salted meat from last night. Then he grabs a cup of water and pours the content into the brazier, effectively extinguishing the only source of warmth in the room. He also extinguishes the oil lamp on the ceiling, before looking at her, dressed from top to toes in his assassin attire. "I'll be going on ahead. Don't forget to lock the door."

"Yes, Altaïr." She nods.

He suddenly pauses before leaving the door, and turns on his heels to approach her. The smug smile has returned to his face, and she finds it amusing, how he changes drastically in one second. He does not say anything as he leans down to peck a kiss on her lips, briefly, but enough to make her blush. "Bring the kaftans," he adds before finally leaving the room.

She shakes her head with a shy grin on her face as he has left, admiring the change in Altaïr in one night. She struggles putting on the left armbrace and opts to pull the strap with her teeth, careful not to accidentally flick the blade out as she does so. Once every effects have been put on, she closes the wardrobe door, glancing around the room to check if she forgets anything. The kaftans have been placed on the table, as well as the scroll about the target, and she takes them with her. After making sure everything is perfect, she leaves the room and locks it, carrying the key with her as ordered.

The dining hall is already filled with assassins, most of them are wearing kaftans to shield themselves from the cold. Altaïr is not there yet, but she can see Tholeb waving a hand to call her. She waves back, but heads away to the kitchen in the back, where the workers are already busy preparing the food for lunch.

She makes her way passing busy workers to the shelf, and takes two pouches, now wondering just how much food she should bring along. She fills the first pouch with bread, hard and rough, just like it usually is. The second pouch she fills with dried fruits. Dates, mostly, as there is a basket full of them. She grabs a few apricots as well, knowing how Altaïr favors the fruit more than olive or date.

After thanking the workers for the food, she returns to the dining hall. Altaïr has arrived, and he is sitting with the instructors, engaged in a discussion. Ambra decides to sit by Tholeb, whom is happily welcoming her.

"Where are you going, Ambra?" He asks as she is filling her plate with food.

"Jerusalem. Al-Mu'alim orders me to accompany Altaïr in his mission." She replies.

"What? Why?" Tholeb asks again, frowning.

Ambra sighs, "The target is someone I used to know, so..."

Hamzah who is sitting across her frowns, "Are you sure it is wise to witness the death of someone you know? It never brings peace of mind."

She shrugs, "He...is a bad man."

"Were you close to him?"

"Not really, no." She replies quietly, now munching on the food. "How's your wound, Hamzah?"

"I'll live." He chuckles, that soon turns into a grim look as Sofyan pats him a bit harshly on the back.

"Yes, yes, but not an excuse to start training again. We'll go easy on you." Sofyan grins playfully at him. "We had a discussion with the higher ranks, actually, and they suggested him to train with crossbow. Not a bad idea. Have you seen his accuracy, Ambra? Lethal!"

Ambra chuckles at Sofyan's tone of voice. Though it is not a surprise to her that Hamzah has deadly accuracy - he can fling anything from any distance and it will certainly hits the target. He has been the talk of the higher ranked assassins, those who are ranked the sixth and above, but not appointed as instructors. "When will we be allowed to wield a crossbow?" She asks.

"Well, depends on Altaïr. I heard Ahmed used to let his students wield crossbow in their second rank, you know, to build accuracy." Hamzah replies, biting on an olive and wiping the side of his lips. "I've talked this over with Altaïr some time ago. He agreed, but I don't know when he'll allow me to wield it."

As if hearing his name being spoken, Ambra nearly jumps as Altaïr appears behind Hamzah, frowning. "Did you bring the kaftans?"

Hamzah jumps as well, "Oh - Altaïr -" he says, turning around, trying to conceal his surprise.

Altaïr scoffs at him, "I'm surprised you didn't hear me. Did you injure your ears as well?" Much to Hamzah's attempt to reply him, he waves the student off. "I've spoken to the other instructors. Tholeb, you're in charge of the training while I'm gone. Speak with Malik for joined training. Sofyan, are you up for sparring?"

Sofyan lights up at the notion, "Certainly!"

"Good. Show the guards how it's done. Khalid will want to speak with you." Altaïr turns to Hamzah, "the higher ranks seem eager to train with you, so go with them." He then lifts his head to look at Ambra, "let's go."

Ambra finishes her drink quickly, then wipes her hand on the rag on the table. "I'll take my leave, brothers." She bids her farewell, patting Tholeb on the shoulder, before gathering her belongings.

Altaïr hands her a satchel once they are outside the dining hall. She accepts to open it, finding a blanket inside. "The kaftan, Ambra." He asks, and she hands him his kaftan.

"Should we put it on right now?" She asks while placing the pouches of food inside the satchel.

"Unless you want to catch a cold," he shrugs on the kaftan, huffing an icy smoke of breath.  
She follows him walking through the fortress and the city of Masyaf, eventually puts on her kaftan as the wind picks up. The sky is starting to get clear, though she wonders if it will stay like this for the whole journey, and we'd be sleeping on the ground - she sighs. Here is to hope her body can resist the cold well enough.

Upon stepping to the stable, the owner, Salaf, comes to help. "Going somewhere, Altaïr?" He greets with a warm smile, yet the assassin simply nods.

"Yes. Which of your horses is the strongest and the fastest?" Altaïr asks, glancing around the roofed stable for a particular horse.

Salaf looks around, approaching each horses one by one to check them. Ambra walks closer to Altaïr, "How are we going to ride one for two?"

"Like riding with a child, with you in front." Altaïr replies.

Ambra leers at him, a bit annoyed at his choice of word. "Won't it be uncomfortable?"

He shrugs, "We just have to see. The saddle is wide enough for us, I suppose." He glances at her up and down, and she moves aside, self-consciously. "Hmm... Yes, it should be enough for us."

Salaf returns bringing a large brown horse, "I believe this one is the best. It just came a few weeks ago." He hands the reins to Altaïr, whom accepts and proceeds to guide the horse aside.

"Ambra, give me your satchel." Altaïr says, already removing his satchel to be placed over the horse's back. She hands him hers, eyes not leaving the horse to observe its long mane and almost emotionless eyes. Horses are not scary, but the size of them can be quite intimidating. "Get on the horse." He orders.

Alright, if her memory serves her right, one foot here and pull herself up - she tries her best to get on the horse gracefully. She manages, although almost accidentally kicking Altaïr across the face as he is standing on the opposite side of the horse. Once she is settled, she holds onto the saddle tightly, as he begins to climb up the horse and sits just behind her.

"Move forward a bit," he says, and she pushes herself forward, almost bending over the mane of the horse. She feels him settling down behind her. "Sit down now -"

She tries to suppress a blush as she sits down. The saddle is just enough for both of them, but it requires her back to be plastered to his front. She hears him clearing his throat before taking the reins and ordering the horse to move. Thankfully, Salaf is already busy tending his horses.

It is not comfortable, not uncomfortable either. Altaïr lets the horse walks slowly to get accustomed to the feeling, and he lets out an exasperated grunts. “Are you alright?” He asks, pulling the reins to stop.

“I don’t know,” Ambra replies, heaving a sigh as she flexes her tensed fingers from holding onto the saddle too tightly.

He glances down to the sides of the horse, where her feet are dangling idly, while his are on the steps. He brings his feet forward, encasing her feet between his calves and the horse’s sides. “Lean against me, Ambra.” He says, tone indifferent.

She repositions herself to lean backwards, blush finally erupts as his hand pushes on her abdomen until her back is plastered to his front. The back of her head rests on his left shoulder.

He lets out a deep chuckle as he rests his arms on her thighs, “Try not to have indecent thoughts, Ambra. We have a long way to go.”

“I’m not thinking indecently,” she immediately protests, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You may want to hold onto my arms. The ride will be a bit harsh.” He says, and flicks the reins to allow the horse to move. He is right – she immediately takes hold onto his forearms, holding onto his armbraces from over the kaftan. At first, the ride is kept at slow pace. But once they have passed the arch, they begin to travel faster.


	23. Chapter 23

The first day of Altaïr and Ambra's travel to Jerusalem goes well. They make several rests, and the weather is good. At night, they pull up to a shed, which lock has to be picked open. The door is a tight fit for the horse, so does the inside, but it is enough for them. But they cannot rest yet. Altaïr leads her to the side of the shed, through the bushes and trees, and quickly, they try to gather as many sticks and leaves as they can as the cold air begins to nip too uncomfortably. Once they have made a small fire inside the shed, they rest as comfortable as possible.

Their second day is not as good as the first one. Snow comes again. Against the cold, they try to make their way further, taking regular breaks now and then. They finish their salted meat, and start to eat the bread and fruits, though not as fulfilling as the meat. Sometime at night, they finally reach a caravanserais, a place where travelling merchants stop to rest. There is a large square field in the center where the merchants place their wares or set their camps. There are four exits and entrances, and the surrounding area around the field is filled with shops selling their services. From rooms to sleep in, public bathhouse, food stalls, healers, and blacksmiths, anything the travelers may need.

After leaving the horse to be tended by the stable master, Altaïr leads Ambra to the roof, climbing from the outside wall. He makes a climb to one of the towers, and she hesitantly follows. They spend the night in there, high enough to be secluded from anyone, and covered by the stone roof above them. The view is not as good as in Masyaf, but it is high enough to see the road ahead. Both of them fall asleep almost immediately after lying down on the blanket, using the second blanket to cover themselves.

The third day, the snow has stopped. The road is less slippery, and somehow Altaïr thinks it is a good idea for Ambra to hold the reins. She hesitates, but steers the horse nonetheless. A slow pace at first, that is interrupted as Altaïr taps on the horse's sides, and they are yanked as the horse quickens its pace.

On the fourth day, the sky is clearer, but it is getting exhausting. Ambra finds herself dozing off on the horse, wakes up now and then everytime Altaïr makes a sharp move. She tries to stay awake, rubbing the sleep off of her, even pinching her cheeks to keep her eyes open. Futile attempts, as when she wakes up, she notices they have stopped by an oasis. Altaïr does not say a thing once she is alerted, simply climbing down from the horse. Shyly, she follows him, muttering an apology.

On the fifth day, their journey is interrupted. It is at noon when Altaïr paces the horse slowly as they are passing some Crusaders' camps. Ambra can feel his heart beats steadily against her back. His left hand is ready to unsheathe the hidden blade. She silently prays that they can pass unharmed -

And there it is.

"Halt!"

She flinches upon hearing the word spoken in Armenian, yet Altaïr remains calm. She taps on his arm lightly, and he nods, "I heard him." He mutters.

"I said stop!"

This time, the words are accompanied by the clopping hooves of horses. Altaïr clenches the reins tightly, and Ambra fears the worst. "Altaïr." She calls quietly.

The assassin hesitates to flick the reins as two Crusaders on horses come to the sides, another horse follows to stop right in front of them. Altaïr growls as he stops the horse, "If something happens, continue to Jerusalem and don't look back." He mutters to her ear.

Ambra hesitantly nods. She keeps her head low, as one of the Crusaders approach their horse. His armored knee and arm comes to view, "Lower your hoods, travelers."

She wonders if Altaïr has any vocabularies in the language, as he simply sits still, waiting for the perfect moment to attack. This is not good - three Crusaders and camps full of them. She sighs, against her trembling fingers, she raises her head.

"What is the matter?" She flashes an unsure smile at the Crusader, only now noticing his attire. He wears metal helmet that covers half of his face, and his thick beard covers the other half. She notices the change of expression in his face, from stern to surprise.

"You're Armenian?" he asks.

"I am. What seems to be the problem?"

The Crusader glances from her to Altaïr, whose head is lowered until the tip of his nose touches the back of her hood. "Who is the man? Your brother?"

"N-no, my h-husband." The last word comes out as a small shy whisper. "I apologize, he doesn't speak Armenian."

"Then ask him to lower his hood. We're taking precautions - dangerous men lurk around the city." The Crusader says.

Ambra inhales deeply before lowering her hood, earning a tensed grip from Altaïr on her thigh, a silent warning. She turns to face him, tongue a bit stiff and mouth dries as her words tumble softly, "D-darling, would you mind lowering your hood?"

The answer comes in form of action, as Altaïr lowers his hood. The Crusader next to him nods in approval before speaking again, "Very well. Have you any business passing here? To Jerusalem, I presume?"

"Yes, we're visiting a sick relative." She adds hastily, "he's on his deathbed, and we must hurry -"

"Ah, yes, pardon the intrusion." The Crusader cuts her off. "You may continue on your way." He paces his horse away, motioning the others to follow.

Altaïr paces the horse once they have cleared away from his view, body still stiff behind her. "'Darling'?" he scoffs, pulling his hood up.

"If I had said brother, he'd wonder why you're not Armenian." Ambra replies, pulling her hood up as well. "He said there are dangerous men in the city. Could it be -"

"The brethren. Jerusalem houses quite a number of our own." He scoffs again, louder this time. "And yet we're still sent to do their work. Are they all incompetent, I wonder..."

On the sixth day, they finally reach the gate of Jerusalem. The city looks grim, especially with the Crusaders flooding around, metal armors and foreign faces. Altaïr leads the horse to the stable, where there are so many horses around, and the stable masters are tending them. He climbs down from the horse, and Ambra follows, tailing his footsteps into the city by lowering their heads and clasping their hands like praying scholars.

He leads her to an alleyway, where he removes his kaftan, an action that she mimics. "We need to travel on the roof to reach the bureau." He informs, tucking the kaftan under his belt.

Great, she sighs. Her bottom and back feel sore from the ride, and now her arms are going to be as well. Although she cannot complain, Altaïr must be in worse condition than her, as he has not rest peacefully these past days. He runs up a wall, and so she follows.

She tries to remember the places that they have been through, which leads to where, the landmarks and the buildings, as they are running on the rooftops. This is the first time that she sees Altaïr like this, running freely, gracefully - and my, if that does not bother her to catch up with him. His long legs enable him to gain more distances than her, yet he seems to take notice whenever she is at a certain distance away from him, and he would slow down. It is like his senses are heightened - she wonders if he is as graceful when he kills.

They finally reach the rooftop of the bureau. It is covered in thin layer of snow, but the symbol can still be seen. He slides through the rooftop gate, and she follows, holding onto the ledge before finally dropping into the chamber below. Her eyes light up in amazement at the chamber, stone walls in light color, a fountain by the wall, and two braziers beside it. It looks like an ordinary garden, with a door leading to another chamber - where two men suddenly emerge from it.

"Oh - it's you, brothers." The first man says. "Come in and get warm. We have food ready as well."

Ambra throws a glance at Altaïr, but he simply walks to the next chamber, so she walks behind him. The inner chamber is warmer and much pleasant, with an incense burning on the counter, the smell of leather-bound books on the shelves, and the heavily spiced stew in the pot over the brazier. The rafiq is standing behind the counter, hunched over a parchment, and he looks up to see the newcomers. "Ah, Altaïr. Welcome." He greets, straightening himself up.

"Safety and peace, rafiq." Altaïr says.

"To you as well. Sit down, rest, and get warm. Ali, get him the stew." The rafiq orders a skinny man by the brazier. His gaze, however, soon turns to Ambra, and he frowns deeply. "Why must you bring a low ranked assassin along? We have plenty experienced men if you need help."

Altaïr scoffs audibly at the remark, "Most certainly." He motions at her to come forward. "Must I do the introduction?"

Ambra shakes her head, "No, sorry -"

But the tone of her voice renders silence in the chamber. She waits for what may come as the rafiq opens his mouth, possibly to protest -

"A female assassin?" He turns to Altaïr, "we recruit female now, I see? Or is this a courtesan dressed as one?"

"I am not a courtesan." Ambra retorts, only now raising her head to look at the rafiq and around the room - poor Ali is staring with slacked jaw, and she finds it funny. "My name is Ambra."

The rafiq lets out a violent scoff that sounds almost like a cough, "An inexperienced assassin, I may add. Do tell me if you raised to your rank all by yourself, or did you sleep with your instructor to earn it."

How dare he - she is about to reply, when Altaïr waves his hand dismissively. "You may send your complain to Al-Mu'alim. We're here for Hayyiz."

The old rafiq crosses his arms across his chest, "I assume you are her instructor?"

"You assume correctly, but that is the only correct assumption you earn." Altaïr replies, eyes darting to Ambra. She gives him a sharp glance before he averts his eyes to the other assassins in the room. The higher ranks, from the robes they are wearing, no more than the seventh rank. "Avert your eyes somewhere else, brothers, for I hate to gouge them from your heads."

To the remark, the assassins clear their throats and quickly look the other way. It earns another scoff from the rafiq, "I can't give you permission unless you tell me more of this...woman." he says, eyes glancing at Ambra almost disgustingly.

Altaïr sighs, "She is with me."

"Your wife?"

"Student." Altaïr replies, earning a scowl from the rafiq.

The rafiq does not seem pleased with the explanation. Of course - even Ambra is confused on what to say. She clenches her teeth to hold herself back from uttering unwanted remarks. So much for the hospitability of Jerusalem...

"And Al-Mu'alim is alright with this?" He asks, tone cynical.

"He is the one who lets her in. I'm only asked to train and look after her." Altaïr replies. From the look on his face, he is annoyed. Of course he is, they have just ridden for six days, tired from the road, and arrived only to be treated like this. He sighs, "I do ask that you and your men will treat her as an extension of me. We'll leave as soon as we finish the mission."

"Not so fast." The rafiq retorts. "How long have this gone unnoticed? A female in the Brotherhood - we might as well start recruiting the Crusaders. Do you understand the risk you propose to us?" He goes on and on about principle, but Ambra tunes him out, finding each words to be harsh and tiresome to listen to. She is tired, cold, and hungry, yet this old rafiq thinks this is the perfect moment for a lecture.

Altaïr finally speaks, "Like I said, you can send your complain to Al-Mu'alim. In the meantime, you'll let her rest here. Excuse us. Ambra, with me." He motions to her to follow him, and she does, gladly.

"Wait!" the rafiq stops them. Ambra turns to him, catching him sighing loudly. "Fine, fine, I'll give you what I know."

 

The rafiq relents and gives what he knows of Hayyiz, finally, although it is a bit unhelpful. He is still bitter with Ambra, as Altaïr can see, that he refuses to look at her. Altaïr pays him no mind. He accepts the information and leaves the bureau with her.

Hayyiz has taken a residence in a house in the rich district, and that is where they will be going to. Altaïr leads the way through the rooftops, followed by Ambra, whom thankfully has gathered enough strength to at least catch up with him. This is just going to be a quick mission, he thinks to himself, one kill and we will be off, be rid of this city and the rafiq.

As they are closing in to Hayyiz's residence, Altaïr notices a pair of missing footsteps from behind him. He turns around, surprised to find Ambra crouching down on the roof, hidden by a wall. She motions him to get down. What does she see - he shifts his focus and looks around.

Red hues, two of them on the roof of different buildings. Altaïr crouches down and heads to Ambra, "Well done on spotting them."

"Thank you - they are spotters. The slaver uses them in case a slave tries to sneak by." She looks around, "they are always placed around the barn, or wherever they keep the slaves. A few metres apart, mostly, which means -"

"I see more over there." He points to the left, where far ahead he can see faint red hues on the roof. "There are four of them, then."

She peeks from behind the wall, "Then the slaves are kept nearby." She turns to him, "what will their fate be once you kill Hayyiz?"

"That is not our concern. We'll inform Al-Mu'alim and ask for what's best." He replies. This is a bit difficult. On one side, he can try getting into the residence on his own, but who knows how many guards Hayyiz has inside? The last thing he needs is compromising the Brotherhood by raising an alarm. And the rafiq refuses to give more information about him, though Altaïr believes he has no information at all aside from where he stays.

"I could...try scouting ahead." She suddenly says.

"No. We'll keep watch for now. If nothing happens, we'll head back to the bureau."

But this is hardly a suitable place to observe. They barely see anything but the roof of Hayyiz's residence. Altaïr looks around to find a better place. Whenever he moves, Ambra follows closely. Until he decides to climb up a nearby tower that overlooks a section of the rich district.

He crouches down on the edge of the tower, looking down at Hayyiz's place, observing the surrounding area. Ambra crouches beside him, although taking her distance away from the ledge. From this height, he can see clearer, though the red hues are a bit faded, but he counts at least four spotters and five archers. The building has its windows closed, making it difficult to guess the number of guards inside.

"I think I found where they keep the slaves." Ambra suddenly says.

He follows her gaze to the spotters, only now seeing they are surrounding a three stories building with a door on the top that leads to the roof. He can see the faint trail of their red hues around that door, "That building looks perfect."

"It is." She mutters in reply. "Secluded, high-placed, and guarded."

"Then we should avoid coming from there. The spotters are likely to guard that particular area only. We'll have better chance coming from the opposite direction." He says.

They stay in silence for what seems like hours, until the sky gets darker, and the wind picks up. He feels a bit numb from the cold, the front and the back of his tunics are damp from the fallen snow, and he holds back not to shudder. There has not been any movement from Hayyiz's residence. Is he not present?

"Altaïr." Ambra calls, and he turns to look at her. Her lips and face have lost their color. But her finger is pointing to the street below.

His eyes follow her guidance, now looking at a group of people walking in line towards the residence. He shifts his focus, golden hue confirming that one of them is his target, particularly the one skinny man whom walking hand-in-hand with a woman. Strange, he thinks. They look just like another rich couple guarded by four men, yet the woman does not bear harm, in fact, her hue is white and blue. An ally?

"Shall we strike now?" Ambra asks, eyes not leaving the group.

"It's crowded." He replies. "I'm thinking of distracting the guards -" he glances at her, frowning, "say, should Hayyiz recognize you, will he keep you to himself or hand you over to Jaqq?"

She glares daggers at him, appalled, "What?"

"Strip off your robe and armor, but keep your hidden blade. Get his attention and have his guards chase you down. I'm certain you can outrun them." He instructs boldly. Of course she can, he thinks, with her short stature, she can easily part through people.

Ambra hesitates, but groans nonetheless. Hastily, she removes her hood and holster. Altaïr helps by removing her belt, earning a jump from her as the action surprises her. He hands her the effects before standing up, knees popping from crouching too long.

"There's an easy way down." He points towards a cart of hay bale below, something that has caught his attention for hours.

She catches his meaning, "Altaïr, it's a cart."

"It won't break." He glances at the target and his group. They are still far away from the hay bale, there is time to get down and prepare if they jump now. "Now, tuck your hands in front of your chest."

"Do I have a say in this?" She protests, hands clutching her effects tightly in front of her chest. Fear is evident in her face.

"Afraid not." He turns her around, both arms wrapping around her waist tightly, pulling her flushed to his front. He calculates his position, then, without hesitation, he takes her leaping off of the tower.

His back lands onto the hay bale with a soft swish, as the material breaks his fall. Ambra's weight above him presses them into the hay bale, enveloping them. Her heartbeat is racing wildly, as opposed to his calmer one. She makes a move to get out, but he holds her still.

"Not yet." He mutters. His focus shifts, ears catching on muffled footsteps and clearer exchange of words. In his head, he can see the golden hue in the distance, coming to his direction, and he waits patiently. Hayyiz is exchanging words with the woman.

"...a castle? Why would you need one? We travel around so much, there will be no time to enjoy it." Hayyiz says.

"I'd say freedom, but you'll say no." The woman replies. Her voice is soft and sultry, almost seductive, yet the tone bears no seduction.

"My dear, you'll never find a man as good as me in this world." Hayyiz replies. "Besides, why run away when you can have everything you want within reach?"

"Not a castle apparently." She retorts.

"Behave that tongue, Adha. If you can convince our next clients, I may just give you a wonderful gift."

Adha, huh? Altaïr notes her name in his mind. She is certainly not Hayyiz's wife, more like a prisoner or a courtesan, one that smoothens out the business deals for him. He listens more to them, now they are talking about the incoming war, the state of Jerusalem, the new ruby bracelet that he gave to her, idle things that do not concern their business. Altaïr nearly forgets about Ambra on top of him, squirming uncomfortably in her place.

"Leave your belongings here." He mutters against her ear. "When I say so, you'll run to Hayyiz and make sure he notices you. Then run away from his guards."

"How do you know if this will work?" She asks quietly.

"Trust me." He bites her ear gently, feeling the rumble in her chest as she swallows her groan. "The sooner we finish this mission, the sooner we can head back to Masyaf."

She whimpers, but then chuckles. "You're insatiable."

"How would you know?" He squeezes her waist tightly, recalling the bite that he left there, and how he'd like to give more in the future. As much as he wants to tease her more, his ears catch the footsteps of Hayyiz and his group. They are getting closer. "Are you ready?" He asks, voice empty from teasing.

She swallows before speaking, "Yes."

"Now."

He watches her emerging from the hay bale, her effects are left beside him, sunken into the hay bale. He exits the hay bale as well, but heading to the opposite direction from her, a bit further, to observe. He watches her running towards Hayyiz, footsteps loud, and the guards stop to look. She slows down to a stop, body tensing as Hayyiz and Adha turn to look at her.

Hayyiz immediately lets go of Adha, and comes forward to approach Ambra. "My goodness! Is it you, Ambra?"

Ambra stays silent, eyes wide, and it is the first time that Altaïr sees her being honestly terrified. She takes one step backwards, and Hayyiz steps forward to her.

"Wait! Wait! I just want to talk!" He says, raising his hands as a peaceful gesture. "Where have you been? Why - what are you wearing? Do you live here now? My god, Jaqq will be pleased to -"

Ambra does not let him finish. She shuffles backwards, and just as predicted, Hayyiz barks order at his guards to follow her, and two of them comply. Altaïr watches as Ambra makes a sprint through the thinning crowd, and soon she disappears between buildings, followed with two guards yelling her name. Hayyiz has taken ahold of Adha's arm.

"What was that about?" Adha asks, but Hayyiz has his attention on his two remaining guards.

"Escort her back to the house and keep an eye on her." He orders, then he points at Adha. "If either of you speak of this to Jaqq, it will be the last thing you'll say. Stay your tongue, especially you, Adha."

He is going to run after Ambra, Altaïr thinks. He walks towards Hayyiz, slowly, blending in with what remains of the crowd. He waits until Adha and the guards have turned around to continue walking towards the residence. Then, with swift movement, Altaïr lunges towards Hayyiz, burying the hidden blade into his throat. The eyes of the slaver widen in shock, but he is unable to say anything. Altaïr lowers him quickly to the ground, and swipes the feather with the oozing blood.

"Assassin!"

Altaïr jumps into defensive stance as the exclamation catches him off guard. He looks ahead, cursing his luck for having Adha and the guards looking at his direction. One of the guards run to him with his sword up, ready to attack. Altaïr gives him no chance to do so, as he closes the distance between them, sword sheating, and buries the blade through his chest.

The last guard is standing between him and Adha, and Altaïr finds it even more intriguing, that she does not make a move to run away. Is she not a prisoner? Never mind. If she decides to interrupt him, then she will also be rid of her life.

Altaïr clashes his sword against the guard's, and within seconds, he manages to subdue and kill him. He tosses his dead body aside, only now realizing that Adha has made a run for her life. Not good. He chases after her. The black burqa that she wears is flowing behind her.

He is taken aback as she removes her veil and lets the wind casts it to his direction. He catches the garment, throwing it aside, not faltering in his steps. Adha has taken a turn to an alley, passing through crates and barrels, desperately. The next alley that she turns to, her feet get caught in between her own abaya, and she trips forward.

Altaïr grabs her by the upper arm, but quickly lunges backward as he sees a glint of a dagger in her hand, aiming for his throat. He parries forcefully, making her toss it aside, then pins her to the ground. He crouches beside her, one knee over her abdomen, the other foot is stepping onto her lower arm. His hand holds her other arm, while his hidden blade is unsheathed and ready by her throat. Only then he realizes something.

Adha looks terrified. Her black orbs glare at him, half hating, half begging. He takes in her feature, the soft face and her pointed nose, the long lashes and her full, red lips. Her jet black hair fans out on the ground, kept by a crown-like ornament on her head. His eyes glance downward to what she wears - but quickly raise up to meet her gaze, finding her tight-fitting clothing too revealing to him. "Give me quick reasons why I should not kill you." He says.

She huffs, "I'm not your target."

"You saw my face, it is enough reason to kill you."

"It's difficult not to look at God and live to tell the tale."

He frowns, "Are you a courtesan?"

"Are you in need of one?"

He presses the blade closer to her throat, and her playful gaze falters. "Last chance."

She blinks twice slowly, each look from her eyes somehow calms him down, but he tries to remain unaffected. "I was as bounded to Hayyiz as the slaves he sold. He had his use of me, and I, very much, would like to return home."

"Were you taken forcefully?"

"Something like that. Now, assassin," she clears her throat, "I have no ties with Hayyiz or his little business group. I'd like to leave this city, and the last time I checked, there is a caravan heading out tonight. Why don't we go on our separate ways?"

"What is your destination?" He asks.

"Why? You'd like to take me there?"

"Don't get your hopes up. I'd like to know where to start in case you spill of what happened tonight." He scoffs. If she is a courtesan, she is certainly brave for not caring for her own tongue. Any other man would have liberated her of such ability to talk.

She sighs, defeated. "Constantinople. Away from this land."

He reads her, finding her telling the truth, though it still baffles him why she appears white and blue in his focus. He removes himself from her, grabbing her upper arm to help her stand up. She hesitates, but complies, standing up with eyes not leaving his. Their small difference in height lets him notice the slight glint in those orbs. He takes note of what she wears, intricate clothing of a rich person, gems and gold. No wonder she has to wear a burqa... "Adha, yes?" He asks.

"Yes. And you?" She returns the question.

"You should not know my name." He replies curtly.

"I should. I'd hate to have people accidentally kill you, thinking you're another assassin on the prowl." She smirks, full lips curve upwards.

He frowns deeper, "Altaïr."

"Thank you for liberating me, Altaïr." She smiles genuinely. "May our path crosses again."

"May it never does."

"In another circumstance, I hope." She chuckles, turning around to pick her dagger from the ground. She gives him another look, face partially concealed by her dark mane, but says nothing. He watches her making a run from the alley, until she disappears in the night.

 

Where am I?

Ambra finds herself asking the same question for the hundredth time as she makes her way through the city of Jerusalem. She has lost sight of the guards that are chasing her, but now she has also lost herself. Standing on the rooftop, she tries to recall where she has and has not been, but it is difficult when everything looks the same at night. This is not good, she swallows.

Her aching feet bring her to a rooftop garden, where she climbs in for warmth, however small it offers. Her ears are straining to listen to any sound, wondering if the guards are still looking for her, and if Altaïr is successful with his mission or not. She regrets not being able to watch him kill Hayyiz, if he has done so.

Her peace is interrupted by sounds of heavy footsteps coming closer. She unsheathes her hidden blade, body tensing, just my luck, she thinks. She is about to peek from the curtains, when suddenly a face comes into view, checking into the garden, and she exclaims in surprise.

"In here!" The guard grabs her by the collar of her tunics, pulling her to him. She offers a fight, pulling him into the garden with as much force as she can. The hidden blade buries deeply into his throat - and again, just her luck - he slumps forward into the garden with her, oozing blood onto her.

She gags at the smell, quickly trying to push him away before the second guard finds her. He falls heavily onto the wooden floor beside her, blood staining her tunics, and she quickly gets up to her feet. She exits the garden, welcoming the cold air against her face to wash away the acidic smell of blood. But she cannot linger, as a wheeze of arrow lands just a mere inch away from her face, embedded into the frame of the rooftop garden.

She has two choices, either run away or run towards the archer. He has readied his bow, "Stay where you are!"

"I'm hurt!" She exclaims a lie, gagging at the smell of blood again.

The archer approaches quickly, but cautiously. "Raise your hands!"

"I can't!" She huffs, then dramatically, she presses her hand on her chest, staining her palm with the blood. She drops herself to the rooftop, and as expected, the archer runs towards her. He quickly grabs her by the upper arms, trying to get her up.

"Oh curse me - stay with me -" he rouses her up. She shivers honestly in cold, and he instinctively brings her into his arms. She wraps her arms around his neck, and he has his around her waist. "Let's get you inside -"

The rest of his words is drowned by his own muffled sound of pain, as she flicks her hidden blade and plunges it deeply into the side of his neck. He instantly tenses up, arms clenching tightly around her, sending her gasping for air as he struggles to breathe. He staggers backwards towards the edge of the roof - oh no, she sheaths her blade and tries to get away. But the archer's last action in life is to bring her with him.

When they fall down three stories below, Ambra gives in on whatever harm may come.

The first thing she feels is the harsh impact against her front as she lands on top of the dead archer. Then a hot, searing pain, on her right thigh. Her ears are ringing as she sits up to notice where they have landed. A market stall, or what used to be one. The people around her seem like a blur, especially as she tries to stand up, wincing at the pain in her thigh that she does not dare to look at. A man comes forward to help her, and she instinctively moves away, hopping into a run.

If her memory serves her right, the bureau is close to the market. She turns to an alleyway, finding solace between tall buildings and damp air, where no one can see her. To the roof, she reminds herself, she needs to get up to the rooftop.

She climbs the side of the building with what left of her strength. The dried blood in her hands are soon wet by her own sweat, creating a sticky mixture that leaves faint trails on the stone surface. When she reaches the rooftop, she is hoping for a slice of peace, yet another danger presents itself to her.

A city guard, an archer, is looking down at her, surprised. "Hey! Get down!" He exclaims, a hand ready to unsheathe his sword. She moves to defensive stance - but to no use, as the guard suddenly falls forward, chokes on his own blood. What -

A handle of a throwing knife comes to view, where it has lodged itself into the guard's neck. She looks around, finally sighing in relief at the hooded figure of Altaïr, leaping forward from another roof towards her. Her effects are in his hands.

"Altaïr -"

"How bad?" He cuts her off, eyes widen at the front of her tunic.

She looks down at herself, finding the state of clothing that she is in to be dreadful. "It's not my blood." She replies.

"That too?" He points to her right thigh, which she has not dared to look at in fear of knowing the source of pain.

"That is my blood." She replies. "I'm sorry, I got lost and -"

A wheeze of arrow flies between them, and she jumps. Again?! She is almost tempted to yell angrily at whoever interrupts her peace. But Altaïr has grabbed her by the waist and hoists her up his shoulder. Before she can register what happens, he has started to run.

The view that she can see is of city guards chasing them down, some has readied their bows. She watches them in a blur, gasping now and then whenever Altaïr pulls a maneuver that scares her, especially as he leaps from a building to land on a ladder. He grunts as he climbs up hastily, and soon he breaks into a sprint on the rooftop. The guards are lost in view.

The next thing she registers is the scrapping sound as he slides into the rooftop gate of the bureau, then another thud and his groan as they land inside, more like fall inside. He has broken the fall with his own body, though the action means nothing as it only saves her bottom half from connecting with the stone floor.

The door that leads into the inner chamber is opened, and Ali comes into view. "Close the gate!" Altaïr barks at him, rolling aside to sit up. Ambra tries her best to roll aside as well, as the skinny assassin makes his way to close the rooftop gate. "Ambra - inside, now." Altaïr growls, pushing himself to stand up, abandoning Ambra's effects on the floor.

Ali jumps at the state she is in, "By Allah -"

"Not my blood." She quickly says, staggering towards the door. She feels Altaïr's hand on her back, guiding her into the inner chamber, where she is soon greeted by the same shocked expression of the Rafiq.

"The deed is done." Altaïr informs, placing a bloody feather onto the counter. "Hayyiz is dead. The woman who was with him was another prisoner, and she has escaped to return home. What is left is the slaves that he brought into the city."

The old rafiq blinks back into reality, "Yes, very good, I'll inform - Ali! Ali!"

"Yes, rafiq?" The skinny assassin comes into the chamber, closing the door behind him.

"Get your brethren and prepare to infiltrate his residence." The rafiq moves his hand frantically on the countertop, eyes alternately looking from the pile of parchments to Ambra, "Al-Mu'alim...sent his order. The slaves are to be questioned about Hayyiz and his circle of friends."

"What of their fate?" Ambra asks hoarsely, only now finding her throat to be very dry.

"Set to freedom outside of Jerusalem. This city is hell to live in right now."

No kidding, she bites back the retort.

The rafiq gestures to the door leading to the staircase, "Bathhouse is downstairs. Should I ask for a healer or -"

"Unless you have a female healer, then don't bother." Altaïr replies curtly. Ambra is taken aback as he suddenly gathers her in his arms, lifting her off the floor, where she sees her own blood has made a small pool on the surface. "I take it Al-Mu'alim has also explained of her status?"

The rafiq's face is the same shade as her blood, "Yes, he has."

Altaïr lets out a scoff before walking away, "You, by the fire," he barks at an assassin sitting idly, whom quickly stands up to his feet, "prepare two sets of clothing."

"Y-yes, Altaïr." The assassin stutters his reply before Altaïr walks out of the room.

"I expect explanation from you. Right now would be the best time." Altaïr mutters as he carries her downstairs. Each step that he takes sends a jolt to her wounded thigh.

"I managed to lose the guards at first, but I was lost as well. They found me hiding in the rooftop garden. I killed the first one, and he fell on me, which results in...this." she gestures to her bloody tunics. "The second guard took me to his death. We fell onto a market stall, and I hurt my thigh. I ran away and that is how we met on the rooftop."

They have reached the bottom story. She can see what seems to be a closed shop in the first floor. He follows her eyes, "The bureau is masked as a shop, so that people will not know of what's above." He explains before walking ahead through a secluded door.

The bathhouse is a small, tiled room, with a shallow pool in the center. There is water fountain on the side, and a bench on the other. The shelf in the corner is filled with towels and soaps. The smell of incense fills the air. The oil lamp on the walls are illuminating the room, tiles glistening with orange hue.

Altaïr sets her down on the bench, "Get undressed quickly before your wound gets infected."

She wants to protest, but the look in his face is not one to mess with. Obediently, she complies, pulling off her sash and taking off her armbraces one by one. In front of her, Altaïr is also taking off his clothes, a bit more efficiently than her, to be honest. She takes off her tunics, holding back not to gag as the blood stains her chin and the side of her face. The stained materials are soon discarded on the floor, and she unconsciously covers her breasts from view. She blushes deeply upon seeing the fading dark marks that he left almost a week ago, marking her torso here and there.

Altaïr kneels down in front of her, and she jumps as he helps taking off her boots. His own clothing has been reduced to his trousers. Bare chest brings back the memory of their intimacy, and she blushes deeply. He does not bother to notice, attention has already turned towards her right thigh, where it feels a bit tingling. She keeps her eyes at him, "How bad is it?"

His fingers probe around the source of the pain, and she whimpers. "You'll live." He unties the knot of her trousers, "lean on me."

She leans to his shoulder, one hand clutching the edge of the bench, and she grunts as he lifts her body slightly to remove the offending material. When it goes past her thighs, only then she sees her wound.

A small gash, does not seem too deep, but enough to bleed, is adorning her right thigh. She shudders at the sight. Altaïr does not seem to falter, instead, his fingers begin to carefully probe around the gash. "Lie down, and I'll get it cleaned up." He nudges her to the left side, and she silently obeys.

"Does it need to be cauterize?" She asks, watching him taking a few towels from the shelf and dipping them in the water.

"No, your wound is not that deep, though I believe something has lodged itself inside." He replies, wringing the water from the towel.

She looks at him, only now noticing the bruise on his side, "You're injured too."

"Hmm?" He raises his arm to look at the bruise, "it's nothing."

"What happened?" She asks, watching him kneeling down in front of her. Her body tenses as he brings the towel over the wound.

"Must have been the fall." He mutters, wiping the blood from around her wound.

"The leap of faith or -" the rest of her words turns into a loud hiss as Altaïr presses down around the wound. She taps his arm, but he does not falter.

"There is a piece of wood in your wound." He informs, wet fingers suddenly sneak into the wound without warning, and she yelps loudly. "Hush, Ambra." He pauses.

She nods, biting her lower lip to keep the noise in. She closes her eyes as he starts probing again, whimpering, as his fingers grab onto something foreign. She feels him pulling it out, and she sighs in relief as the pain subsides.

"Got it." He says, and she opens her eyes to find him showing her the object that cause her harm. "It's safer to take precaution, so in my advice, bite onto the towel."

"What?" She frowns, but complies nonetheless as he offers a dry towel for her mouth. The next thing she feels is another searing pain as he pours water into the wound.

She loses track of time. Her thigh is trembling from the pain, but on the bright side, it is not as excruciating as before. "There, it's done." Altaïr says after a moment of silence. He has tied a towel over the wound.

"Thank you, Altaïr." Ambra huffs, licking her dry lips from biting onto the towel. She sits up and straightens her leg, counting her blessing that at least it is not broken. It will be disastrous if she cannot walk - there is still a lot of training to be done.

Her attention is averted as Altaïr is untying the knot of his pants, letting the material falls to the floor. She inhales sharply, blushing at the sight of his bare body, which does not go unnoticed by him, and he offers a frown. "Should I bathe you as well or are you well enough to do so on your own?" He asks, tone smug and almost mocking.

She stands up, leaning to her left leg, as she braces herself to walk towards the pool. Face burning as she feels his eyes on her. Altaïr has stepped into the pool, now sitting down on the bottom tiles. The water reaches up to his chest. Ambra walks slightly limping to the other side, sitting down on the edge, before carefully stepping inside. The water is cooling and refreshing, and she decides to submerge herself, half lying down, to wet her hair and face.

It is done. She thinks, emerging from the water, wiping droplets of water from her face. Hayyiz is dead. One of the many associates of Jaqq. How many would it take to be killed until she can kill Jaqq himself? She wonders if hed heard of Hayyiz's death will he be afraid? Will he be indifferent? Her eyes are met with Altaïr's dark golden orbs, and as if reading her mind, he offers a smirk on the side of his face.

Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adha!  
> Now, now, would she be a threat or an ally?


	24. Chapter 24

For once, a night in Jerusalem is not as bad as it usually is. The old rafiq is silent - or perhaps enjoying the company of the many brethren stationed in the bureau, as Altaïr can hear their faint talks and laughter upstairs. He himself has decided to retire from the commotion after dinner. The exhaustion of riding for six days to Jerusalem finally weighs down on him.

He has taken the liberty to use the meditation room as a sleeping quarter, enjoying the seclusion it offers. Near the door, he sees Ambra still cleaning their hidden blade. "Leave it be for the morning." He tells her.

"The smell is unbearable." She replies, not even turning to him, as she scrubs the blade with a wet rag. The tunics that she is wearing is slightly too big for her that the collar keeps sliding down either to the back or to the front. The sleeves have been rolled up, and the brethren upstairs have been laughing at it during dinner. Even the pants require to be rolled up to avoid tripping, thankfully hidden by her boots.

He sighs and looks at the ceiling, mind wandering. Ali and his brethren have infiltrated Hayyiz's residence as ordered, and they returned with numerous scrolls, either of letters or maps. Based on what Ambra said, they can be correspondence with Jaqq or potential buyers. The odd thing is, the brethren did not find any signs of a female living in the residence. In fact, there is a room that has been cleaned thoroughly, that they suspect someone wants to remove the trace of Adha.

Adha. The name bothers his peace, but her face even more so. Something is off in her, he does not know what, but it has been confusing him. Black magic, is his initial thought, that perhaps she possesses the ability to seduce any men she wants - or she is that charming and beautiful that all she needs to do is bat her eyelashes and anyone will succumb to her bidding. Either way, he deems it better that she is somewhere far away.

Ambra finally finishes cleaning the hidden blades, now placing them aside with the rest of their effects. He watches her slightly limping to place the rag on the shelf. The wounded thigh has been aided with bandage.

What are we now? He unconsciously thinks. Not a couple, but also more than brethren. The only thing binding them right now is their title as master and servant, for their actions are hardly what instructor does to a student. It feels suitable, yet on the other hand, it is also liberating. A marriage without vows, a relationship without love -

Then lust?

Is it still superficial when what he adores most about her is her gaze?

"Altaïr," she calls, turning to face him.

"Hmm?"

"What was it like, killing Hayyiz?"

He motions her to come closer, and she does, sitting down beside him. "Like any other assassination targets. Why?"

"Did he suffer?" Her expression is hardened.

"It was quick, but certainly not painless." He replies, absentmindedly raising a hand to hold the damp strand of her hair. "Once we find out the rest of Jaqqs men, you'll earn your chance to kill them."

She nods, "The woman who was with him, was she a slave as well?"

"A courtesan, more likely." He replies, despite not knowing for sure himself. Yet a simple reminder of Adha sends the image of her sultry gaze in his mind, an overwhelming sense of calmness, as if she is taming him. There is a pull in his heart, his mind feeds an imagination of her taking it in her hand, caressing it, kissing it. He shakes the feeling away, blinking to gaze into the emerald orbs of Ambra, anchoring himself back to reality.

Ambra lies down beside him, and he instinctively pulls her to lie on his chest. An arm wrap under her body to over her waist. He listens to her take of breath. Tomorrow they will be on the road again, he thinks. If there is no other task they have to complete...

He wakes up before sunrise, rousing her up as well to prepare for their journey today. She wakes up a bit groggily, a bit feverish, in fact, but he blames the season for that. Sleepily, they go on their own business, him heading upstairs to have a talk with the rafiq, and her heading downstairs to utilize the bathhouse.

The brethren are still asleep on the carpet around the brazier of the bureau. Most of them are still wearing their effects, not bothering to remove their boots even. The rafiq has just awaken, now filling the incense on the counter with more herbs. "You're up early." He greets.

"So are you. I'll be taking my leave today." Altaïr replies, smoothing down the front of his tunic.

The rafiq scoffs, "Usually you'll take your leave without any notice."

"If I were alone, that will be the case."

"Your student, Ambra," the rafiq says, "Al-Mu'alim mentions of her past. Why did you take her in?"

"How much did he say?" Altaïr returns the question.

"Just from how he found her and where she said she came from." The rafiq replies, glancing at Altaïr. "Reading the explanation, I sort of understand her need to be on the mission, yet I still believe it's inappropriate for a female to be in the Brotherhood. It's called the 'brotherhood' for a reason."

"And yet, Al-Mu'alim begs to differ." Altaïr retorts.

"Yes, as he does to you as well. You know he took you in because of your father -"

"Spare him out of this. He has suffered enough in the afterlife." Altaïr barks back. What a great start to the day... He holds back the urge to be aggressive. The last thing he needs is complain from an old rafiq to Al-Mu'alim. "Is there anything that must be done before I leave?"

"Yes. Make sure the meditation room is clean of your fornication last night."

Altaïr bites back his tongue from replying. "Anything else?"

The rafiq places down a satchel in front of him, "Parchments taken from Hayyiz's residence. Bring it to Al-Mu'alim." He suddenly throws a crumpled ball of parchment to one of the sleeping brethren on the carpet, "hey! Wake up, you lazy dogs! You still have a task to complete!"

The assassin groans, but sitting up nonetheless. "Yes, rafiq."

Altaïr watches as the assassin wakes up his brethren, and one by one, each of them stands up groggily. The rafiq clears his throat, "The brethren will be escorting the slaves out of town today."

Withholding his own irritation against the rafiq's judgment, Altaïr decides to return to the meditation room. Fornication - he huffs, tempted to do just that to spite the rafiq. But that will be out of bounds, even for himself.

Ambra is putting on her effects when he enters the meditation room, turning to face him, a gentle smile on her face as usual. "Welcome back, Altaïr."

He nods, approaching her to lean against the wall beside her. "The brethren are going to escort the slaves."

She stops, "Are we to follow them?"

"No, but we'll be passing through the same gate." He replies, watching her slowly continuing her action. He decides to put on the rest of his effects as well.

She pulls on her armbrace, "Shouldnt we go with them?"

"They're capable on their own." He hooks his belt on.

She sighs, worry is etched on her face. "They will have nowhere to go, Altaïr. Knowing Hayyiz, he'd have them branded on the face. Can i at least talk to them?

"And if they spill of your whereabouts?" He ties his armbrace, but pauses as she helps him with it.

"I belong to you now. I'm not going anywhere." She replies, cheeks tinted in pink as she does so.

He chuckles, "That is reassuring."

"Can we at least observe from afar? Please?" She ties his second armbrace. "I just want to see them."

Why not? He weighs the options. He would rather take a quick trip back to Masyaf, but on the other hand, he would also like to see the slaves first handedly. The state they are in right now is possibly dreadful, have they eaten, he wonders. Besides -

There is pain in Ambra's eyes as she waits for his answer. The slaves are her first family, it is only natural that she wants to see them in good condition. He can understand that. What harm will it do for her to see them before they are separated again?

Yet heavily, he shakes his head. "No, Ambra. We cant take any risk. If indeed one of them gets captured again, they might spill of your whereabouts." He puts a hand on her upper arm, gripping lightly, "The last thing we need is Jaqq marching to Masyaf to demand your return. He did not exactly liberate you, didnt he?"

Her eyes widen in fear at his reply before glancing to the floor. "Y-youre right."

"Rest assure, your friends will be handled with care." He pats her shoulder, silently praying they will, indeed, be handled with care.

 

The journey home to Masyaf is harsher, with the frequent snowing and avoiding the Crusaders. Altaïr and Ambra arrive at Masyaf a bit later than expected, which is on the eighth day at noon. Now both of them are reporting to Al-Mu'alim, despite the exhaustion and their damp tunics.

Al-Mu'alim has just finished examining the parchments brought by Altaïr. "I didn't expect the worst, but it came nonetheless. Ambra," his call sends the female student jumping in surprise, "i'm sorry for what you've been through. The mill where you came from is still selling slaves in massive amount."

Altaïr watches as Ambra simply nods. Al-Mu'alim has carried out his explanation.

"Hayyiz's death is clearly going to be heard by Jaqq. He was sent to Jerusalem to sell the slaves to the Crusaders. Be at peace, child, they are safe now. The brethren took them eastern. There's a small town for refugees, and i'm certain they would find it suitable to live in." He puts forward a parchment to the front of his table. "Do you recognize these names?"

Ambra glances at Altaïr, whom gives her a nod of approval to approach the table. She moves forward, and picks the parcment up to read it. Altaïr moves forward to stand behind her and look. He can see five names written neatly under a long paragraph of what seems to be a contract. Hayyiz's name is one of them, and Jaqq is written above him.

"These are J-J-Jaqq's associates." Ambra says. "Hayyiz, Fihr, Sayyid, and Akhnas. And J-Jaqq himself."

"Did you see them often?" Al-Mu'alim asks, as Ambra is reading the paragraph above the names. It is indeed a contract, determining how they will share their profit.

"I...they met in the big house, mostly. Sometimes they went to the field." Ambra puts down the parchment to the table, handing it back to Al-Mu'alim.

"Can you recognize them?"

Hesitantly, Ambra nods. "Y-yes, Master."

"Can they recognize you?" Altaïr speaks up, startling her. She flinches and turns to him a bit, and he can see her hesitation clearly in her face.

"I'm sure they can." She replies quietly.

Al-Mu'alim strokes his beard, "The whereabouts of these men are unknown. For now, i'll have the brethren keeping an eye on suspicious activities. Altaïr, what of the wife of Hayyiz?"

Upon the indirect reminder, Altaïr finds himself thinking of Adha. The soft features, the dark orbs of her gaze, the small laughter, and the way she smiled at him - he shakes the thought away. "She wasn't his wife, Master. Hayyiz took her forcefully from Constatinople."

"I take it you did not kill her?"

"There was no need to." Was it? Altaïr asks himself. She helped Hayyiz sold the slaves, did she not? Technically, she was his associate, she should be killed - who knows if she'd return to Tarsus and inform Jaqq of what happened?

Then why did he let her go so easily?

"Very well." Al-Mu'alim replies, dragging Altaïr back to reality. "Go and take a rest. You are definitely in need of one."

"Safety and peace, Master." Altaïr says, almost at the same time as Ambra, though she sounds quieter than him. He leads her to leave the castle, passing the windows and the gate leading to the garden, where the courtesans are waving upon the sight of her, beckoning her to join them for a talk. But he keeps her walking. Rest for now, idle things later.

The room is still the same as it was before, though colder and a bit humid. Altaïr quickly fixes the situation, making a fire in the brazier, while Ambra lights up the oil lamp on the ceiling by climbing on a chair. The newly made heat sends both of the occupants sighing in content.

Altaïr opens the wardrobe and begins to store his effects. Ambra follows as well, pulling the oversized hood off of her, then discarding the damp material on the floor. He glances over her, noticing how quiet she is today - as she was on the road for the past days.

"What's on your mind?" He asks, removing his armbraces swiftly.

"Nothing." She replies, turning her belt to unhook it.

The truth. He finds it surprising that she does not lie of what she has in mind. "You know i don't like to guess, so whatever you have in mind, do tell."

"I have nothing, Altaïr." She places the belt in the wardrobe, fingers begin removing her armbrace. "Just...exhausted."

He hums idly, now beginning to remove his outer tunic. It smells of the horse, and he throws it to the floor, joining his sash. "Winter is almost over." He says, trying to make a conversation to ease the tension in the room. "You and your brethren will be elevated to the next rank, but i need your determination. I'll give a difficult task to accomplish, and so far, you're not entirely grasping the concept yet."

She lets out a sigh, "I'll do my best."

He discards his inner tunic to the floor, "I haven't even told you what it is yet."

For once, she looks up at him, hands untying her sash. "But you said you'll never tell about the final task."

"The concept." He grabs a clean cloth to wipe the sweat off of his body. A bath is much needed, he is thinking to take one before resting. He glances at Ambra, finding her removing the oversized outer tunic given by the Jerusalem bureau. "Are you alright?"

She sighs again, nodding slowly. "I'm exhausted, sorry."

"You've been quiet during the whole ride." He glances down to her thigh, "did it hurt so much that you refrained from talking?"

She follows his gaze, and pats her right thigh where the wound is probably still healing. "It's...fine." she looks at him, and for once, he finds her unreadable. There is something in her eyes - confusion? "I'm alright, Altaïr."

He sighs, throwing the rag he is holding into the wardrobe. "You're free to go to the courtesans if it'll help you."

She shakes her head, "No - i..." She sighs louder, stopping altogether from removing her tunic. Altaïr stops as well, but not before sliding on a new tunic. He looks at her, watching her shifting her weight from one side to the other. "If... J-Jaqq already heard of Hayyiz's death, then Fihr, Sayyid, and Akhnas will be much more guarded. Getting to J-Jaqq will be harder. The mill he runs is extremely difficult to penetrate and to escape from - i was lucky to escape unscathed."

Altaïr crosses his arms in front of his chest, "Is that what you've been thinking about?"

Ambra nods, "Yes."

"Their guards don't have knowledge of what assassins can do. You are one, you'll have better skills than them."

"What if i won't?" She looks at him, frowning. "Altaïr, i may be the least skillful second ranked student in the fortress."

"You're progressing. Don't focus on the result, focus on where you are now." He barks at her. She blinks back a tear, and he sighs. "Nobody becomes great at something overnight. Ambra, look at me." He continues when she focuses on him, "you're training with me. Don't compare yourself with others."

She hesitantly nods, "Yes - i'm sorry..."

"Look," he grabs the side of her face, and she flinches. But he does not let go, instead, pulling her by the waist to him. He manages to catch the widening of her eyes before he leans down to kiss her. Her lips are slightly chapped from the cold, and her skin is warm - could be a sign of fever, he thinks. He feels her kissing him back, lips moulding against his, as both of her hands wrap around his neck.

He pulls away a bit, huffing against her trembling lips. Their foreheads are pressed against each other, noses as well. She swallows before speaking, "I apologize."

"No need to. You were doubting yourself." He replies, pulling her tighter to him. "Doubt is good, Ambra, but trust is even better."

She huffs a laughter, "I trust you, Altaïr."

"Of course you do, else you won't have me do this to you." He leans forward and kisses her again, swallowing her chuckle.

He feels her hand caressing the back of his head, fingers threading through his dark brown locks - and when she clenches, he grunts in response. By now he should have told her of the effect it brings to him.

He pulls away from her, "Speaking of trust," he pushes her backwards, away from the door, and to the table. She yelps as her bottom collides with the wooden material, but he simply scoffs, "back in Jerusalem, you still don't trust the leap of faith. And no students of mine should be in doubt of doing one."

"To be fair, it was a cart of haybale, Altaïr. It could break - what are you doing?" She quickly asks as he lifts her off of the floor to sit on the table. Emerald eyes widening in realization, "Altaïr -"

"Tell me to stop and i will."

She blinks at him, ever so innocently, blush creeping up her cheeks and nose. She purses her lips, "Won't it be loud?" She whispers.

"Everybody is in the field. Unless you can scream loud enough to alert them from here," he frowns at her, "you can't, can you?"

Upon the light remark, she flashes a grin at him - finally. He kisses her again, briefly, before parting. A smirk plays on his face as he purrs over her lips.

"You should be reprimanded for doubting your instructor in leap of faith."


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW!

Ambra is taken aback as Altaïr pushes her to lie down on the table. He positions himself between her legs, how convinient, she shyly thinks, as his manhood presses against her womanhood. He hovers over her, holding both of her hands down. His stamina surprises her - how is he not exhausted after the journey?

He kisses her deeply, tongue battles against her own - and how surprisingly, he grows harsher than before. The kiss feels hastened, impatient, that soon she gasps for air. Yet he refuses to give her rest. He brings her hands up above her head, and quickly pins them down using one hand.

By now, she is certain he favors to have control even in sex. She squirms against his hold, only to find him grunting in their kiss. His other hand is trailing down to the hem of her inner tunic. She bucks sharply as his hand meets the skin of her abdomen, and it keeps going upwards, and upwards, bringing the tunic with him as he goes. The rough palm of his hand grips under one of her breasts, rendering her moaning lowly to his lips.

He tugs her inner tunic upwards, almost forcefully, despite arching her back to ease the action. She blushes deeply as her breasts are bare to the air, peaks grazing the front of his tunic. He pulls away from the kiss to pull the rest of the tunic off of her head and tosses it onto the tabletop.

He pulls away from her, now standing tall, chest huffing as he is removing his own tunic. Ambra decides to sit up and helps him with the offending material. Altaïr chuckles, but lets her do so nonetheless. Soon she is met with his bare chest - and instinctively, she runs her hands on it. He is all muscles, hard and taut. She trails her hands to his abdomen, feeling the slightly softer tissue there, and the hard indentation of his abdominal muscle. She moves to his sides, fingers following the small scars adorning his torso, until she reaches his back. There is a dip in the center of his lower back, and she brings her hands upwards over his spine, chin resting on his chest, listening to his thrumming heartbeat - and surprisingly, he keeps his hands on either of her sides on the table.

 

Altaïr cannot contain his smirk, proud at the admiration in her eyes. How bold she becomes now, that she straightens herself up to be closer to his face. She must have caught the look in his face, because suddenly she realizes of what she has done and blushes oh so deeply. Now is his turn.

He pulls her off of the table, back on her feet, only to turn her around and bends her forward until her chest meets the tabletop. "Altaïr?" She inquires, confused.

"Hmm?" He leans down to her back, brushing her hair away from the side of the face that is not pressed to the table.

"I'm not sure i follow what this is." She voices her concern.

He nibbles on her ear gently, biting and licking, eliciting an earnest moan out of her. She gasps as his hand moves to the front of her trousers. It is a bit difficult to find the knot in this position, but he insists nonetheless. She props herself up on her elbows, tiptoeing to raise her hips a bit to help him - an appreciative gesture that he rewards with a kiss beneath her ear.

Her oversized trousers slide down to the floor once the knot is undone. But there is more he'd love to do. His hand trails to between her legs, down her pubic hair, and to her womanhood. She bucks as his fingers part her folds, only to tease around, before moving upwards to her nub. She tenses under his touch.

His forefinger moves against the nub gently, sending her shuddering and huffing loudly. "Altaïr -" she bites down a moaning, swallowing her own voice. He chuckles against the nape of her neck, pressing his smirk there. The soft moaning she gives is hushed, forcefully lowered by her. "Al...Altaïr, i could scream - wait -"

But he has no intention to wait. He sucks a mark on her nape, all while pressing his finger harder against her nub, then rubbing it still slowly. Her hands scramble to the front to grab her discarded tunic, and he chuckles as he finds her biting on it to muffle her voice. He kisses lower to her spine, and lower, and lower - and suddenly she jumps and moans louder.

Ah, is this where she favors the most?

 

Ambra can feel his kisses move upwards slowly, all while moving his finger a bit faster against her nub. She tenses again, then tries to move upwards to the tabletop to escape from under him. But he is having none of it. His other hand moves to grab her hand, pinning it down, a gesture that enables her to clench tightly to him. His lips graze a certain spot on her back, and she cannot contain the voice she lets out.

"Lose the tunic, Ambra." He mutters while spreading her legs wider with his own.

Hesitantly, she lets go of the tunic from between her teeth. He suddenly speeds up his finger against her nub. "AH!" She bucks against the table, dropping her head down to the tunic, ready to muffle her own voice. The new position scares her, as well as excites her, as she begins to lose control of her own voice.

The tightening in her lower abdomen warns her of the incoming climax. She scrambles ahead, but he pushes forward, making the table move slightly. She grips onto the tunic tightly, trying to swallow her moan - a futile attempt as Altaïr growls over her nape and bites on the skin there. Her moan erupts, at the same time his finger circles her nub, and her hand clenches in his own.

"Don't hold back." He growls lowly against the crook of her neck.

"But -" she struggles not to moan. Think of something, anything, she huffs, shuddering as she tries to focus on anything else to delay her impending orgasm.

"No," Altaïr grunts, "no holding back with me, Ambra, or i'll stop entirely."

She feels his finger moves slower, and hastily, albeit hesitantly, she casts away her shame to let out a breathy moan into the room. It earns an appreciative hum from him. "Altaïr..." She calls between moaning. Her lower abdomen clenches tightly, a knot is ready to break, please, please, please, she loudly thinks.

But he stops entirely.

 

Altaïr chuckles, amused, as Ambra lets out a disappointed groan onto the table. He hovers over her ear, "You're very impatient."

She huffs, "You're relentless."

"If i recall, this is supposed to be a punishment for doubting me. I'll behave that tongue if i were you, unless you'd rather not have pleasure." He pushes himself up to stand. The position she is in right now is alluring, with her black hair fans out to one side on the table, and her hands clenching, back raising and lowering with each of her breath. The indentation of his teeth and the marks he has given are prominent on her skin. "Stay there." He says before taking a step away from her.

"Altaïr?" She instinctively raises her head, turning to look at him.

He tuts in warning, "Ambra."

"Sorry." She resumes her previous position.

He walks backwards, admiring how obedient she is to him. Tiptoeing on the edge of the table, legs spread - this is the first time he sees her backside clearly. There are marks - old scars? - adorning her bottom and the back of her thighs. The stretches of her skin forming stripes on the sides of her hips, and he wonders how it feels for her if he were to run his fingernails there.

That would be saved for later, he thinks, moving to grab the cedar oil from the carpet. He discards his trousers swiftly, hissing at the spring of his manhood from the confine of the fabric. He returns to Ambra immediately.

She jumps as their bare skin meets. Even more surprised as his manhood rests on top of her bottom. Quickly, he opens the lid of the wooden jar. He brings up a generous amount of oil to his manhood, rubbing around the swollen head and down to the shaft. The simple motion sends him shuddering, especially as he recalls how she feels around him.

His coated fingers move to her opening, sending her gasping. He applies more around her womanhood, before moving knuckle deep into her. She sighs audibly that soon turns into another loud moan as he presses another finger in. How warm, he finds himself thinking, moving his fingers in and out of her slowly.

As much as he would like to prolong her torment, he is impatient to plunge into her. He removes his fingers from her womanhood, wiping the glistening clear liquid of her arousal around her opening, as she whimpers. He then grips his manhood and aims for her opening, hissing from the contact.

When he enters her, he groans loudly at the sensation.

 

Ambra cannot stop herself from moaning loudly, despite Altaïr entering her slowly. The new position makes him feel bigger, stretching her more, almost to the point of pain. He leans down to her, and she can feel heat radiates off of his body to her back. His hand holds the nape of her neck down to the table, while the other hand moves to the side of her hips, fingernails grazing there, almost like scratching.

Then he slaps his hips into her, grounding himself entirely inside, and she finds herself begging loudly. "Please, please, please..."

He finds it to his liking apparently. A deep chuckle rumbles through his body when he bites her shoulder. Then he begins to move oh so slowly, still teasing, still fishing out moan after moan from her.

She cannot move. With his hands holding her in place, she is at his mercy. She closes her eyes, focusing on the sensation, on the way his manhood feels inside her. Then he moves faster, hips slapping harder that the table moves with the motion, and she tries not to scream aloud. This feels too good, she admits. Her womanhood is clenching tightly, tighter than before, and he grunts out her name. His finger moves to her nub again, rubbing faster in circular motion, on and on and on again - until the knot breaks.

Ambra does not know how loud she is with her own heart beating in her ears. All that she knows, the sensation feels overwhelming, and still, Altaïr moves faster inside her. Hips twisting now and then, rubbing that sweet spot inside her.

But he suddenly pulls out completely, pulling her to stand up with him.

 

Swiftly, Altaïr turns her around to face him, picking her up to place her on the table. He enters her without waiting for another second, and her chest raises as she gasps loudly. She is pushed onto her back by his force, legs wrapping around his hips. With each thrust he gives, the table moves against the stone floor, and he is being careful, watching in case it collides with the shelf or the clay jar on the floor.

Ambra caresses the sides of his face, where the stubble has grown quite a bit in their journey. She hisses as he offers deep thrusts, then almost screams as he rolls his hips. He hovers over her face, slowing down a bit to kiss her, to taste her moan of satisfaction. How sinful she looks, with half closed eyes, mouth slightly agape, and breasts bouncing with each thrust. His hands move to caress her breasts, and she throws her head backwards at the sensation.

Her nipples are erect, and he takes joy to toy with them. No more holding back now, not when he knows she is capable of taking him. He sighs blissfully as her hand tugs at the back of his head, an action that he replies with a tug on her nipples. She whimpers, womanhood clenching involuntarily.

He cannot hide his grin as he finds a new way to make her feel overwhelmed. Rolling his hips in mid-thrust and pinching her nipples, he finds her clenching tightly against his manhood, mouth breathes out her moan loudly. Her hands desperately hold onto his own, an effort to make him stop, but he has no intention to do so.

When he thrusts relentlessly, creating a violent sound of wood scrapping against stone, she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him for an embrace. "Please, Altaïr - please..." She whispers against his ear.

"Please what?" He growls, one hand props himself from crushing her with his weight.

She groans aloud. He pulls away a bit to look at her face. How flushed she has become, how sweat layers her skin, heartbeat loud against his chest. She is close, he can sense it. How tempting it is to just stop and let her suffer for a little while. But seeing her break is much more rewarding for him.

"Do you want me to stop?" He asks over her lips.

"No! No, please!" She begs loudly.

He chuckles, rotating his hips again to get that delicious response from her. Her walls are getting wetter and tighter. He kisses her deeply, taking each and every sigh and moan she gives, returning with satisfactory grunts of his own. Her walls are spasming now, and the sensation is wonderful to him. Hold on, he forces himself to hold back.

She breaks with his name leaving her lips. He groans at the intensity, slowing down his pace to gather his composure, and to give her time to cope with the feeling. Her walls are wrapping around his manhood, twitching wildly. Her body jerks a bit, there is a blush spreading throughout her breasts. He rolls his hips slowly, earning a sharp moan from her. "Wait - please -" she swallows quickly, voice raspy.

"Unfortunately no," he replies, kissing her jawline to her ear. His mouth trails lower to her neck, at the same time he moves his hips a bit faster, rendering her clawing onto his back. He offers a bite on the side of her neck, tongue moves to soothe the area, only to sink his teeth again. He stops biting when she claws tighter to his skin. "Let's see if you're still doubting me after this."

 

Too much, this is too much, Ambra wraps her arms around Altaïr's neck tightly, in hope that he would stop from marking her neck. Her legs tremble involuntarily, and she opts to open them further, heels resting on the edge of the table. The position is much open than before, allowing him to move deeper into her.

She gasps as he puts his arms under her knees, then pushes them open even more. She is almost folded, and his manhood, by Heaven, the tip caresses deeply inside her. Then he moves faster, relentlessly, their hips slap together making a noise in the room. He breathes through clenched teeth, grunting against her ear, sending jolts down her spine. "Ambra..." He calls in a growl, effectively making her clenching at the sensation.

Then suddenly he stands upright, bringing her with him. His hands move to her bottom, lifting her off of the tabletop. In fear of falling, she wraps her arms tighter around his neck. But he has gotten her. The new position enables her to be at the same height as him, chests touching, and -

That spot. His manhood perfectly hits her spot without having to adjust. He lifts her bottom up, then slowly impales her to his manhood, groaning throughout the motion. She grabs his head, feeling his rapid heartbeat in the pulse of his neck, feeling full and high on bliss with every thrust he gives. She gasps against it, "Altaïr..." She moans out his name.

He walks backwards, still carrying her, occasionally bounces her on his manhood. She pulls a bit to look at him - how gorgeous. His eyes are reduced to dilated pupils, wild glint in those orbs. Nostrils flaring and chest huffing. His lips... She adores the twitch in the corner of his lips, the scar that is tugged by the motion - she kisses him passionately, earning an earnest grunt from him.

He brings them to sit on the carpet, and soon, he pushes her to her back, resuming the position where she is nearly folded in half. His hips are stuttering, rhythm faltering, and she can feel the desperation of his thrusts. Neither of them part from each other, still savoring the kiss they share. And she feels her abdomen tenses, and her womanhood trembles - and he rolls his hips, rubbing his pubic bone to her clit, and that simple motion sends her over the edge. She breaks away from the kiss as she reaches the bliss, moaning becomes vocal, body jerking up from the sensation - Altaïr growling above her, that soon turns into a breathy groan, and his hips slap harder, faster, and -

Then it hits her. A hot liquid shooting deeply into her womanhood, "Altaïr!" She clenches at the sensation. It is hot, and his manhood is twitching inside her, and he is huffing loudly - is that a moan she hears?

He has stopped moving, but his manhood is still twitching. He looks at her with hazy eyes, a smirk on the side of his face. He leans down to kiss her forehead, then sighs, "Was it uncomfortable?" He asks, out of breath.

"It's hot." She replies with the same breathless state.

He hums idly, kissing her lips once before asking. "By now, have you learned your lesson?"

She quickly nods, "Yes, Altaïr, yes." She cannot imagine what he would do if the answer is no. Nevertheless, she wonders if anyone heard her voice. Oh my, she blushes upon remembering how loud she was.

He catches her worry, "Keep doubting me, and next time i'll take you in the bathhouse. See if you can keep your mouth shut there."


	26. Chapter 26

Ambra sits on the edge of the west tower, legs dangling towards the canyon below, and the haybales. The summer night is a contrast compared to winter night. Though there is still chill in the air, at least she can see the stars clearer. Her hand is clutching onto a scroll, the dreaded one that she does not dare to read twice. When Al-Mu'alim handed it to her, she was ecstatic - finally, a target for her. But once she read it, her heart fell to the pit of her stomach.

She lets the night wind have its way with her hair, and opts to look up to enjoy the view. If only Altaïr is here, then she can tell him what the problem is. Unfortunately, he is on a mission, has been since a week ago. Aleppo is where he is now.

Months after the elevation to the third rank, Ambra still finds it unbeliveable. She has been bestowed a dagger, though training with it proves to be difficult, especially since Altaïr has to be away constantly. Malik has taken her under his wings for now, and she finds it easier to train with him - though he did make a remark that it is not fair Altaïr taught her skills beyond her rank. If anything, training with Malik has provided more opportunities for her to spend time with Kadar and his brethren. A contrast - ah, she feels a pang in her chest as she remembers something.

Tholeb, Hamzah, and Sofyan have been elevated to the sixth rank. Despite promising that they will always be bound as brothers and sister, they are busy on their own. Sofyan and Hamzah have been sent to join the bureau in Sis, where Ahmed has been appointed as the rafiq there months prior. Tholeb, on the other hand, remains in the fortress as he has been appointed by Altaïr to be his successor - an instructor. While Altaïr retires from training any more students, except for Ambra.

Why do people have to come and go? She asks it all the time. Saying goodbye is never enjoyable, and how she hates separation more than anything. Hamzah did promise to send a pigeon now and then, though she doubts Al-Mu'alim will enjoy getting personal letters while he waits for important informations.

Then, she sighs, glancing at the scroll in her hand, this comes.

"What are you doing here?"

Ambra jumps as she hears the voice. She turns, surprised for the second time, as Malik sits down beside her. He is still dressed in his assassin attire, surprisingly, he has been elevated to the eighth rank. "Malik." She says, forcing a smile.

"Why are you here?" He asks, thick brows furrowing.

"I'm...taking some air." She inhales deeply, looking around the canyon. "What about you? Why are you here?"

He shrugs, "Well, i was heading to the room, but i saw you here. If i didn't know any better, i'd say you were about to jump."

She chuckles, "No. I was admiring the view."

"Ah." He nods in acknowledgement. "Then why the sour face? Did Altaïr really rub off on you?"

"What? No - no, i'm fine." She hastily replies.

The older As-Sayf smiles, dimples forming in his cheeks. He looks at her, dark orbs observing her, "Ambra," he calls softly, "what's the matter?"

She sighs, "Malik -"

"Is this about that?" He nods towards her hand, where she still holds onto the scroll almost tightly. Her palm feels burning all of the sudden. She casts away her eyes from Malik, a mistake, "Do tell me. I'm all ears."

She hesitates, but handing the scroll to Malik. She does not dare to open it a second time, or to read it again, finding her insides burning by the words written there. Malik accepts the scroll and starts to unroll it.

"Assassination targets?" He asks, "why is there only one scroll?"

Ambra shrugs. "That is how it is when Al-Mu'alim gave it to me."

"For you?" Malik asks, surprised. His eyes begin to read the content of the scroll. "Fihr and Akhnas. Both last seen in the caravanserais heading to Edessa. Guarded with archers and swordsmen. Travelling with two caravans, locked -" he stops reading all of the sudden, and she knows he has reached the part she dreaded the most.

"They bring children." Ambra croaks, feeling her eyes burning from the incoming tears. "The informant claimed he got a glimpse of what's inside. I..." She sighs, "Fihr and Akhnas work for J-Jaqq. I should be happy and honored to kill them."

"But?" Malik asks, rolling the parchment back into a scroll. "Are you not ready for it?"

"It's the children that i'm worried about. Al-Mu'alim hasn't said anything of what they'll become."

Malik taps the scroll in his hand, humming idly. "I see... What of Altaïr?"

"He's in Aleppo. Malik," Ambra looks at him, sighing audibly. "Assassins should not fear death, right? Yet right now i fear of many things."

To that remark, Malik laughs, "It's impossible to abolish fear altogether, Ambra. Your fear for their well-being is normal. Even i fear for Kadar sometimes." He tilts his head to the side, still watching her. "I take it you'll leave for Edessa tomorrow?"

"Yes." She is pulling onto her own sash, twisting the material in her hand.

"Alone?" He asks again.

To this, she shrugs. "I suppose, yes."

"Do you even know the way there, though?"

Hesitantly, she shakes her head. "I only know i need to head north."

Malik nods before letting out a cynical scoff. "Yes, keep on going north, and soon you'll be in the Crusaders' territory. I'll go with you."

The remark surprises her, "No - Malik -"

"I'm responsible for you while Altaïr is off on his mission. He'd have my head if you went missing, or worse, killed." He cuts her off sternly. "Beside, as a brother, i'd rather not see you off on your own. We'll go together."

Is this alright? On one side, she would rather spend days alone on the way to Edessa, though she is yet to get the hang of horse riding. But on the other side, Malik is right. She could get lost and waste precious time getting there alone. Who knows where the children will be once she arrives. She ponders for what to say. Will this be alright to Altaïr?

"I...suppose you're right." She sighs defeatedly. "But, Malik, is it alright?"

Malik has an honest smile on his face, "Of course, why wouldn't it be? We'll leave tomorrow morning then."

 

The journey to Edessa is not a light one. Malik leads the way, all too eager to reach the destination, yet still maintaining such happy attitude. Ambra cannot help but join him, riding beside him, listening to any small remarks he makes along the way.

"So, tell me." Malik asks on the third night of their journey, as they are sitting down in their makeshift camp. Ambra raises her head to look at him. "How do you feel living with Altair? I shared a room with him for a few years, and in less than a week i had the urge to smother him with a pillow."

Ambra imagines the younger version of Altair and Malik, both with shorter stature and rounder face, fighting over petty things just like little kids. The thought sends her smiling, "I don't think he's that bad, actually. He keeps his space."

Malik leans against a rock, hood lowered to bare his short dark hair. "There's not much space to share on the carpet."

"There's plenty." She replies, quickly trying to divert the topic. "Why do you dislike him, Malik?"

To that, Malik scoffs, "What's not to dislike? The man is arrogant and reckless."

"But he clearly knows what he's doing."

Malik raises his head, "I have no intention to talk about him behind his back. But if you find him as a suitable roommate, good for you. Just be careful."

She only nods, resting her head on the makeshift pillow that is her bundled up hood. Her eyes scan around their camp, taking in the darkness, a contrast to the only source of light from their campfire. Malik's eyes are still open, and he is looking up to the sky, baring his throat to the cold night air.

"I have a question." She breaks the silence.

"I'm listening." Malik does not even move.

"What do you do when you're afraid of losing Kadar?"

"Grab him by the collar and tell him not to do something stupid. Why?"

"No, i mean, if he's being sent out on a mission, or if he's in danger."

Malik lowers his gaze to look at her, "He's an As-Sayf. He can handle himself well." He cocks his head to the side, "Ever since our father passed away, Kadar is the only family i have. It's true that i may be overprotective, but you'd do so too when you have someone you care about. To answer your question..." He sighs deeply, "i just pray for his safety, or that i can rescue him in time."

Rescue in time... It has been two years since she escaped from Tarsus, this is the third year. She wonders if she is too late to save her friends. The thought consumes her inside out since last winter, as she reached the age of seventeen. She wonders what would Sofi say once they meet again. What would become of her friends, of the mill, of the lives taken by Jaqq? She knows she is getting closer to her goal...

Malik is snoring lightly, head resting against the rock. Ambra decides to rest her mind, silently praying that she can make it in time.

 

What are the odds?

Altair clenches his fists, holding back not to grab her by the arm and plunge his blade to her throat. He cannot believe it, and he takes it that she cannot believe it either, as they stand across each other in the alleyway. There is a tightening in his chest upon seeing a glimpse of her face in the market, and he has followed her just to be sure that it is her - and here she is in the flesh.

"I thought you had gone to Constantinople, Adha." He says, walking aside to block the way in case she tries to escape.

"You have no idea how difficult it is to travel nowadays." Adha replies. Her tone of voice has lost its playful tone, instead, she sounds angry and much more serious. "Altair, correct?"

"What are you doing here?" He asks.

She leans against the wall, crossing her arms in front of her ample breasts. "I've been here for months. What are you doing here?"

He frowns deeply, "You said you were heading to Constantinople."

"I was and still am heading there." She replies sharply. "Have you even seen the number of army marching around? It'll take a miracle to leave unharmed. What are you doing here?"

"None of your business. Take your leave tonight or die by my blade."

"Did you not hear of what i just said?" Adha glares at him, dark orbs glinting dangerously in the evening rays.

"I decided not to kill you because you were not my target. Don't give me reasons to do the opposite now." Altair huffs, looking to the entrance of the alleyway in case someone walks by.

Adha is tapping her feet on the ground, "Then you shouldn't hesitate to kill me. I'm dead either way." She opens her arms, as if offering an embrace to him, and the simple motion sends his heart leaping. The serious look on her face, the concern that she shows, she is genuinely terrified. "Go on. Kill me."

"Get lost, Adha." Altair growls. He runs towards the nearby wall, rendering her jumping in surprise, as he begins to leap upwards and climbs the building. What is she doing to me? He wonders, forcing himself not to look at her on his way up.

"If you change your mind, i'll be in the alleyway by the market!" She shouts - by Heaven, even the smallest sound of her voice sends relief to him, knowing she is alright and alive after all these months. Why does he care now?

The bureau is dim in lighting, as favored by the rafiq, who is reading behind the counter. He looks up from his book to greet Altair, "How goes your mission?" He asks, closing the book in hand.

Altair produces a blood stained feather from his pouch, "The target is killed. I'll take my leave to Masyaf tonight."

The rafiq frowns, "So soon? You just arrived last night."

Altair is silent. As much as he'd like to take a rest for the day, he cannot stay. Not when Adha is in the same city. His mind has the image of her, brows furrowing, chest huffing, frustrated, still dressed in the tight fitting garment that flaunts her curve. He tries to avert his thought to Masyaf, to Ambra, to her emerald green eyes and soft smile. Desire. He needs to return to her and let his desire for Adha dies down with the reality. By now he is certain Adha is imbued with black magic of seduction.

"Oh, before you leave," the rafiq snaps him out of his thought. He reaches under the counter and brings up a small piece of parchment. "This came earlier. I suppose it is for you."

Altair receives the small parchment and unfolds it. The words are written in unfamiliar handwriting. 'Altair, i'm in Edessa for a mission. Sorry for not asking for permittion. Ambra.'

Edessa? He folds the parchment and tucks it in his pouch. That is north of Aleppo, about two to three days journey from where he is now. How long has she been there? Did she leave alone? What kind of mission that requires her to be sent there?

The rafiq seems to read Altair's expression, "Something's wrong?"

Altair looks at him, "No, just a change of plan. I'm taking my leave to Edessa."

After gathering food for the journey, Altair heads towards the city gate. Leaping from one rooftop to the next, his mind is racing. Can Ambra not wait for him to return? Why does she have to leave so soon? Never mind - he grunts, landing in an alleyway by the gate, he needs to get to her quickly before something bad happens -

"Taking your leave without good bye?"

The voice sends Altair turning on his heels, hidden blade unsheathed, as he pushes the person towards the wall. It takes him a second to realize who it is, and when he does, the black orbs of Adha sends his heart dropping to his stomach. She raises an eyebrow at him, despite his arm pinning her by the collarbone to the wall.

"Were you following me?" Altair growls, blade pressing against the front of Adha's torso.

She clicks her tongue, "You wish. I was here first."

"You said you'd be in the alleyway by the market."

"Ah, so you heard me." The corners of her full lips tug into a smile. The simple motion attracts Altair's gaze.

He releases her, taking a few steps back to avoid breathing the same air as her. "What are you doing here?" He sheathes his blade, staring at her from under his hood.

"I'm trying to leave. There's a number of friends who can help me return home, but i must meet them in Edessa."

Altair frowns deeply, what a coincidence - is this fate? What does she want? The name Adha does not exist before in his life, yet now here she is, disrupting every single aspects of his peace. You are not bewitched by her, he reminds himself sternly, eyes glancing away from her.

"And you're planning to leave, how? Your outfit attracts attention." He mutters.

"That is the least of my concern." She cocks her head to the side. "Where are you going?"

"None of your business." He barks back.

"You must have a home. Where is it?"

"Adha." He calls sternly, glaring daggers at her. Yet she remains unaffected. If anything, she looks at him gently, unmoving, keeping herself strong despite his harsh demeanor. "The less you know about me, the better it is for you. Take your leave, and may we never see each other again."

She chuckles cynically, "You do care for me, do you? Or else you would have killed me without second thought."

Altair clenches his teeth. "Why would you glorify death? It's not an achievement."

"I'm not glorifying anything. I just want to return home."

"Constantinople is your home, correct?"

She sighs, shaking her head. "More like a prison. Listen, Altair," she looks at him, "for what it's worth, i'm sorry that our first encounter was not pleasant. Thank you for saving me -"

"I did nothing of such." He mutters quickly.

She smiles painfully, "Thank you, nonetheless." She walks towards him, and he tenses. Yet she simply passes him before stopping briefly. "May you have a safe journey."

Altair does not realize of what he is doing, but he registers his hand grabbing onto Adha's upper arm, stopping her before she can take another step. She does not say a word, yet she looks hurt, as if she has lowered her mask of calm composure and bares her true nature. He looks at her face, focus shifting to see her blue and white hues slowly turning into golden.

"I'll go with you." He finally speaks. "I'd rather see you be off for good this time."

There is a smile on Adha's face, and it tugs the string of his heart. What are you doing to me?


	27. Chapter 27

"You know, it is unwise to go on a mission while you're emotionally compromised. It can ruin your concentration and definitely will ruin the mission." Malik mutters from Ambra's side, where they are watching from the rooftop for signs of Fihr and Akhnas. Ambra clenches her fists, swallowing down the curses she has in mind.

Malik heaves a sigh, clearly he is more relaxed than her. His dark orbs are scanning the streets below, but occasionally glancing at her.

"I know you're mad at the rafiq." He says.

Ambra glances at him, "You heard what he called me, Malik."

"Are you upset because he called you incompetent, or because he called you Altaïr's prostitute?"

She hisses at the reminder. How close she was to lash out at the rafiq for assuming the worst, yet all that she could do was staying silent and patiently asking for his permittion to pursue the targets. At least Malik tried to calm the situation down, though it is unsure if the impact is significant or not.

"I'm not his prostitute." She mutters angrily.

"Don't take it to heart." Malik replies.

But is it not the reality?

Ambra reminds herself of her status. The activity she and Altaïr occasionally share behind closed door has made her question everything. It will be easier if he made it as a part of her duty as his servant, but no, he insisted for her to indulge as well. If only he would just act coldly to her and treat her like a master usually treats the servant, then she would not have this...doubt.

In a few years or so, he may fall in love with someone, if he has not now. He may marry to have a family, and what would become of her? What would become of them? Would she stand beside or behind him, or would she go off on her own and start her own life? And let the years of living together be wasted by time?

Malik nudges her shoulder, "Is that him?"

Ambra follows his gaze, feeling her blood runs cold as her eyes find the familiar face she hopes to never see again. Fihr is walking alongside two guards. That can't be it, she thinks, crouching down and squinting to search for more guards. There must be more, some archers or knights, not just the usual guards.

"I can take down the guards while you assassinate him." Malik mutters, crouching down beside her. "Bear in mind that we can't linger too long after killing them. Should either of us be chased by city guards, we'll meet again here."

She watches him gracefully performing a leap of faith into a hay bale below. Once he has exited the hay bale, she performs her leap of faith to follow.

Malik has taken a stance by the alleyway, waiting for the opportunity to strike. Ambra stands on the opposite side, waiting for his mark. She watches Fihr and his guards walking, getting closer to the alley now. Malik has unsheathes his sword, and so she does as well.

When the older As-Sayf leaps out of the alley to snatch one guard, Ambra lunges forward and grabs Fihr by the collar of his tunic, burying her sword into his chest.

Fihr gasps and slumps down before she can drag him to the alley, but that is the least of her concern. Malik is fighting the second guard, having killed the first one swiftly, when suddenly an arrow wheezes through and nearly nicks him on the shoulder.

"Archers!" Malik barks.

Ambra plunges her sword deeper into Fihr's chest, twisting it to hasten his death. But the man has gripped both of her arms tightly, painfully, and she holds back a groan - knowing there will be bruises later. She looks at him hatefully. The memory of seeing him in the mill comes flooding back in - his sinister laugh, his hands groping the young slaves, his cackles during a lashing or caning -

Fihr finally exhales his last breath, right when Malik grabs the back of Ambra's head and pushes her down to duck. An arrow flies above their heads. "Feather, now." He quickly says.

Ambra pulls out her sword from Fihr's lifeless body, then lunges backwards to the wall with Malik to avoid another arrow. She is taken aback as Malik's hand fumbles with her pouch, "Malik -"

He pulls out a white feather from her pouch, and hands it to her. "Go swipe his blood. I'll distract the archers."

She does not have a chance to say anything as Malik pushes her towards Fihr's dead body on the ground. Malik pulls out one of the throwing knives in his belt. Ambra manages to catch a glimpse of him throwing it towards the roof where the archers are. She wastes no time to swipe the feather with Fihr's blood, then quickly scrambles back to the wall, dragging Malik by the upper arm. And soon they are running away from the area.

Now only one left.

 

What are you doing?

Altaïr keeps asking himself the same question over and over again. This is a mistake, he thinks. Why did he offer to take Adha to Edessa in the first place?

The said woman is riding on a horse beside him as quiet as she can be. Although the jingle of her accessories is somewhat distracting, accompanied by the sound of the horses' hooves against the ground, Altaïr tries to think of something else. Edessa is just another day ahead. There is no need to rest for another night - he hopes Adha can cope up with the exhaustion.

It is...difficult to be in the same camp as her. To be near her, in fact, as if her presence suffocates him in a way that is addictive. He is intrigued by her mystery. Who is she? What kind of life does she lead? Why does she have to go to Constantinople? How old is she? The idle questions that gnaw at his curiosity beg to be answered.

But how?

"May we take a rest?" Adha breaks the silence.

"Of course." Altaïr replies curtly.

He leads his horse towards the side of the road, right behind some rocks, perfect to hide them from passerby. He does not wait for Adha to jump down from her horse, almost hastily he lays out his blanket, then sets off to gather sticks for a campfire. The night air is chilly, and the dark sky is adorned with stars, and yet he is restless.

When he returns to the makeshift camp, Adha is sitting on his blanket. She is shivering, pulling onto her kaftan closer to her body. Do not engage her in a conversation, he reminds himself before making the fire.

The yellow flame is burning warmly, thawing off a bit of cold. Altaïr sits down on the opposite of Adha, leaning against the rock. He shifts his focus to see the surrounding area - yet finding her golden hue flickering in front of him.

"Won't you sit by me?" Adha asks, sending him out of focus.

"No."

"Why not?"

"You asked to rest, then rest. We'll continue shortly." He huffs, looking to the distance to find other things to focus at.

Adha lies down on her side on the blanket. The position accentuates the curve of her waist and the bulge of her breasts. But she has pulled the kaftan tighter to her body, curling up to what warmth it can offer. Her dark orbs are looking at the flame, and for once, she looks vulnerable like this. There is no lies, no mask of manipulation, just a young woman wanting to be free.

"Is she beautiful?" She suddenly asks.

"Who?" Altaïr returns the question, frowning.

"Your wife." She elaborates. "She's in Edessa, isn't she? That's why you're leaving Aleppo so quickly."

He frowns deeper, "Why do you assume i have a wife?"

She looks at him, dark orbs reflecting the flame. "Most men would have taken the opportunity to have me. You seem revolted by my presence, yet once i mentioned Edessa, you offered to accompany there. I assume it's more than for...duty." she smiles a bit, tugging her red lips upwards, "Am i correct?"

Do not answer her, he reminds himself, casting his glance away from her.

"She's a lucky woman."

He unconsciously scoffs.

"By now, you must be curious of what i am, right?" She speaks as if knowing he is listening. "I'd tell you, but it will be compromising my own life. We all have secrets, don't we, Altaïr? But i suppose it's only fair that i give you a glimpse of it, as you've shown me a glimpse of yours."

"Keep it if you want. I'm not interested in keeping secrets." He finally replies.

"I'll tell you nonetheless." She chuckles. "I have what you call the power of persuasion. People, mostly men, need me to persuade an end to something. A deal, like Hayyiz. In return, they offer me a better life than the one i have in Constantinople."

"Why would you return there if you hate the place so much?"

"It's the only place i know." She replies. "If you've lived in a place and been brought up in their teaching for life, you'd find yourself attached to it. It may seem horrible and unwise to hold onto such way of living, but where else would you go? Where would it be where people won't judge you or mistreat you based on your past?"

I have one person who can prove you wrong, he thinks, smiling on one side of his lips. "I hope you'll stay there for eternity then."

"I doubt that," she laughs - and how wonderful it sounds in his ears. "My life leads me to places. There's a chance that you'll meet me on the road." There is a smile etched on her face. The look in her eyes make him weak, sending an urge to go to her and embrace her the way he does to Ambra -

Ambra.

Think of her. He casts his gaze to the darkness, forcing himself to remember Ambra. The last time they met, the moment when she helped putting on his effects, and being rewarded with a firm kiss on her lips. Is she done with her mission yet? Who is the target -

He stops thinking of her when all of the sudden his mind has replaced the image of Ambra with Adha. The dark eyes, the equally dark hair, the soft feature of her face, the curves of her body - stop it. He huffs loudly, glancing to the said woman, whose eyes have been closed. Finally slipping into a rest.

I should rest too, he sighs. The faster they reach Edessa, the faster she leaves his life altogether. He wraps his own kaftan on his body, fighting off the urge to wrap it over Adha's slightly shivering body, and he rests his head onto the rock. Tomorrow, he closes his eyes.


	28. Chapter 28

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Ambra curses herself in the sleeping quarters of the bureau, hands fumbling with Malik's belt, trying to unhook it. The male assassin is removing his holster, then casting the piece aside on the carpet. She manages to remove his belt, now tugging impatiently at his sash. "It's not your fault, Ambra." He says.

"It's my fault, Malik." She pulls his outer tunic up carefully, not wanting to injure him further.

"To be honest, neither of us expected a whole army to be there." He chuckles, but soon it turns into a hiss of pain as she pulls on his inner tunic.

"I was too slow -" she inhales deeply, fighting back the urge to cry as she sees the wound clearer: a gash across Malik's chest.

The older As-Sayf probes his fingers around the wound, "It's just a scratch. It could be worse."

Fihr's death reached Akhnas faster than expected. When Malik and Ambra found out where he was, he was surrounded by guards, archers, knights - all kinds of nightmare. Taking them down stealthily proved to be time consuming. But once they got closer to Akhnas, the second patrol arrived, and it was either strike now or never. In reckless manner, Ambra shoved Akhnas to the wall, driving her hidden blade into his neck. He let out a blood curling shriek that alerted the guards. At least she managed to swipe the feather with his blood.

The price to pay was fighting to get out of Akhnas' residence. The adrenaline pumped throughout her body as she frantically fought the guards, following Malik's calmer attacks. They were reaching the window when the handle of a sword clashed against Ambra's side of face, rendering her falling to the floor, spitting blood. Malik tried to help, narrowingly managed to avoid being stabbed in the abdomen. At least the offending knight is dead now.

The rafiq was not amused by their action. Even after Ambra presented the bloody feathers as proofs of success, he was still being rude. "You let a woman in the mission, of course she'd ruin everything! Why don't you run along and warm up beds, and leave the killing to men?" So the rafiq said.

"Ambra," Malik calls, hand grabbing her wrist, stopping her from cleaning the wound. He looks at her, lips tugging into a comforting smile, cheeks forming dimples as he does so. The gentleness in his eyes sends her blinking back tears. "I hate to use my rank on you, but listen to me. It's not your fault, you hear me?"

She hesitantly nods, "Yes, but -"

He tuts in annoyance, "No excuse. Being injured is the part of the risk." He lets her wrist go. "I'll clean this up myself. You should get your wound treated."

She relents as Malik takes the rag from her hand. Sighing, she slumps back to sit on the carpet, tugging her hood down. She takes another rag and wets it, then wipes her face with it. She hisses at the contact. There is blood staining the rag, and she keeps on cleaning her wound.

Malik requires help with dressing his wound, so she returns to helping him, wrapping the bandage around his chest. In return, he helps her with her wound. "Do you feel dizzy?" He asks.

"A bit. Why?"

"Just checking."

When he finishes, Ambra flicks out her hidden blade and uses the reflective surface to look at the damage. There is a small gash on her right cheek, and a bruise on the same side of her forehead. The right corner of her mouth is bruised, and the bottom lip is split - presumably from the attack.

"We'll leave for Masyaf tomorrow once Al-Mu'alim orders what to do with the children." Malik says, putting on a new tunic.

Ambra sheathes her blade, "Are they -"

"The brethren are handling them, i presume, at least that's what the rafiq told me." Malik groans as he slides on the outer tunic.

Ambra is silent. Her mind is elsewhere, but importantly, to the children. Where are they now? What will their fate be? They don't have a home here, no parents, no one - she sighs deeply.

"Ambra." Malik calls, a bit sternly than usual. "Go take a rest."

Hesitantly, she nods, and heads to the corner. She watches as Malik puts on his effects, expression has turned into a serious one, with brows furrowing and absent smile. He stands up and leave the quarter, leaving her alone with her thoughts - and only then she cries.

 

Finally.

Altaïr heaves a sigh of relief as he sees the gate of Edessa. He paces the horse faster, impatient to go to the bureau - is Ambra still here, he wonders. Adha rides past him, clearly impatient as well, but for different reason. By the stable, Altaïr sees a group of people and their horses, with hoods and shawls covering their faces. Some of them wear leather armors.

Warily, Altaïr jumps off of his horse to lead it to the stablemaster, all while focusing his shift to observe the strange group. They bear gray hue, unimportant, and Adha's golden one is a contrast to them. "Thank you for waiting." She speaks in French.

"At least you're here." One of the armored men says. "Who came with you?"

Adha glances at Altaïr, "A stranger i met on the road."

"Ah, already making friends, Adha? I suppose you want to say farewell to him before we begin our journey?" The same man scoffs.

Adha leads her horse closer to Altaïr, body rocks up and down gently with the motion, sending her ample breasts to jiggle, and her numerous accessories to jingle. She leans down slightly as she reaches him, "Thank you, Altaïr."

"No need to." He replies too quickly. "May we never meet again."

She chuckles, "Perhaps next time we meet, you'll change your view of me. Give my regards to your wife, would you? She should know how loyal you are to her."

He sighs, "She is not my wife."

"Oh?" Adha's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "A sister then?"

The curiosity in Adha's eyes make Altaïr itches to tell the truth. Why not? After all, they will not see each other again. Might as well tell her something to remember.

"She's my student." He says.

"I take it she's more than that? Considering you went a long way here to fetch her." The corner of Adha's lips tugs upwards in a smirk.

For once in the whole journey, Altaïr looks at her and replies her with a smirk. A smug one, as a parting gift - where she goes next, it might not be pleasant. "Have a safe journey, Adha."

The action sends blush creeping up Adha's cheeks, tainting her face with red hue and a shy smile. She nods to him before pacing the horse back to her group of 'friends'. Altaïr watches her horse being led by another horseman, and soon they make their way away from the gate of Edessa. He watches her golden hue fades as she gets further, and feels his heart beats almost painfully in the confine of his chest. May we never meet again, Adha...

Altaïr averts his thought elsewhere as he begins to run to the bureau. On the rooftops, jumping from one to the next, his hazy mind slowly gets clearer. The reality comes to him like an avalanche. Adha is no one, he says to himself. She is just a stranger crossing path with him. They will never see each other again. It is a wonder that the heat of the morning sun becomes the very thing that grounds him to reality. The simple reminder of who is waiting in the bureau gives him a new purpose.

He slides through the rooftop gate of the bureau and lands gracefully on his feet. He shrugs off his kaftan, finding it too hot to breathe under the thick material. He walks to the next room, "Safety and peace -"

His words stop as the familiar face of Malik comes to view. He is leaning against the counter, pausing from talking with the rafiq, and he has the same shocked expression. "Safety and peace - what are you doing here?"

"What am i doing here - what are you doing here?" Altaïr returns the question.

"Look, before you reach any rash conclusion, let me say that -"

"You're Altaïr, aren't you?" The rafiq suddenly cuts Malik off.

"Rafiq -"

"I am, why?" Altaïr cuts Malik off for the second time.

The look in the rafiq's face is of cynical and anger, "So you're the one who's been sleeping with the prostitute? You brought a shame to the Brotherhood - did you not gain wisdom before reaching your rank?!"

Altaïr glances at Malik, noticing the older As-Sayf quietly muttering, "Anger issue." A remark addressed to the rafiq.

Altaïr glares at the rafiq. "Two questions. One, where is she? Two, on what basis do you dare to call her names?"

"You're saying she raises to her rank all because of skill? Based on her incompetency with the missions, i'd say she does so for sleeping with a certain instructor." The rafiq sneers.

"Did she complete the missions?"

"That's not -"

"Did she complete the missions?" Altaïr repeats the question louder, voice booming in anger.

The rafiq clenches his teeth, "She did, but -"

"Then she is a competent assassin." Altaïr cuts him off sternly. "If you have anymore complain about her, send it to Al-Mu'alim. In the meantime, do treat her as an extension of me. Malik," he turns to the dark haired assassin, "where is she?"

"The sleeping quarters." Malik replies.

"Have both of you finished the missions?"

Malik raises a satchel to his direction, "Just have to bring this back to Al-Mu'alim."

"Then we'll leave shortly. Meet me at the stable." Altaïr takes long strides to exit the chamber, feet thumping angrily against the stone floor, even more so as he walks down the stairs. How many times will people assume the worst of her - no, the worst of them?

But the heatwave in his chest subsides as he sees the bundle of Ambra sleeping in the corner, facing the wall, with a kaftan wrapped over her. He quietly walks to her side. The familiar dark locks of her hair that fan out on the pillows beg to be combed by his fingers. He hovers over her, pulling onto her shoulder to turn her to him, rousing her awake.

"Hmm?" Ambra groans as she rolls to her back, eyes blinking repeatedly to erase the sleep. Her smile grows as she finds out who disturbs her. "Altaïr. Hello."

But the easiness on his face falters as he notices the bruises and wound on her right side of face. He holds her chin to keep her from looking away, "What happened?"

She realizes his words, and her smile disappears. "An unexpected attack. Akhnas was -"

"Akhnas?" He repeats. "Jaqq's associate? That's your target?"

"Fihr and Akhnas." She rectifies, moving her hand to hold his own. Her palm feels warm, almost burning.

"And the briefing said it was for you and Malik?"

Her eyes widen and she tenses all of the sudden. "I - i'm sorry - no - it was only for me. Malik offered to accompany because he felt responsible while you were away - he's not at fault -"

"Did he idly stand while the rafiq and the brethren mock your very existence here?" Altaïr frowns.

"No, Altaïr. He tried to interject, but -" she lowers her voice almost to a whisper, "but the rafiq was too adamant. So we continued with the missions in hope to return early."

His eyes glance at her from top to the chest, searching for any signs of wound other than those on her face. "So why are you still here?"

She sighs painfully, sitting up gingerly. "Fihr and Akhnas brought children with them. The brethren were scheduled to deal with them last night, but Al-Mu'alim's order hasn't arrived yet. As of right now, they're being placed in the orphanage."

Altaïr lowers his hood, "That doesn't explain why you're still here."

She clears her throat, "Malik. He..." She sighs again. "He was wounded yesterday. The wound isn't that deep, but he felt a bit uncomfortable this morning. We agreed to leave a little later after breakfast."

"And yet you were asleep."

"I was..." She smiles thinly. "But, Altaïr, why are you here now?"

He looks at the emerald green of her eyes, the exhaustion on her face, the gentle gaze she gives. Absentmindedly, he raises his hand to caress her cheek. This is reality, he reminds himself. This is who you'll spend your life with, Ambra, not Adha -

The reminder of her sends him flinching, and he desperately tries to ground himself on the moment. His focus shifts, and he can see the faint trail of golden hue on Ambra, less bright than of Adha, and he fears the worst. That he unknowingly has fallen for the mysterious woman.

Don't do this to her. He gazes deeply at Ambra. For the past two years they have been together, have they not grown trusting each other? That every night as they lay down to sleep, he'd hold her close, inhaling the smell of her hair - then stealing a kiss in the morning. That every night as he lay awake, he'd find himself thinking this is the closest he can get to leading a normal life. After all these time, how could he think of throwing it all away for a woman he barely knows?

He feels her hand caressing the side of his face, thumb running along his jaw. "What's wrong?" She quietly asks, concerned.

He turns his head aside, eyes quickly scanning the sleeping quarter for signs of anyone else. When he finds nobody, he turns back to Ambra, then leans down to plant a kiss on her healing lips carefully. The action is accepted gratefully by her, as she sighs and kisses him back.

When they part, he searches for the emerald green of her eyes. His focus shifts, and there it is, the golden hue returns to her. "Altaïr." She hushly calls.

He strokes her cheek gently, "Go get ready. We'll leave immediately."


	29. Chapter 29

The sunlight enters the window of Al-Mu'alim's quarter in the castle, casting light onto the Grand Mentor sitting behind the desk. Ambra is sitting on a chair across him, eyes scanning the parchments of letters from Fihr and Akhnas' residence. The bruises and wound on her face feel less stinging today, though the split lip has dried and she itches to bite on it.

"Ah," Al-Mu'alim breaks the silence. Ambra raises her head to look at him. "It seems Jaqq was devastated of your absence. He ordered a search throughout Tarsus, but found nothing." Al-Mu'alim hands her a letter.

Ambra reads it quickly, feeling the tightening in her chest as she reads about her from Jaqq's eyes. He was determined to find her, sending out men to places, believing someone else had gotten ahold of her. She sets down the letter and continues with another one, averting her thought from him and the mill. The priority today is to find Sayyid's location.

She feels Al-Mu'alim's eyes on her. The Grand Mentor speaks, "I'd like you to tread carefully with this, Ambra. Revenge leads to nothing. It will never bring you peace."

"Yes, Master." She replies.

"Do tell me, child, once you've been avenged, what will become of you?" He asks, occasionally glancing at her from the parchment.

She sets down the parchment she is holding, "I'll stay here, Master. I joined the assassin not only for revenge, it's a noble way of living."

"You're beginning to sound like the brethren." He chuckles, "and what of Altaïr? Will you stay with him?"

She suppresses a smile at the thought of Altaïr. The said man is currently somewhere in the fortress, possibly resting after reporting to Al-Mu'alim. It still...baffles her, as to why he bothered to fetch her from Edessa. Perhaps she should have mentioned in the letter that she went with Malik. "I'll stay with him, Master."

Al-Mu'alim's smile grows slightly, "Have you considered marriage yet?"

The question startles her, "N-no - i thought we're not permitted to -"

"Assassins are permitted to be married, yes. Some choose to, some do not. In this line of life, it will be devastating to die leaving a widow and a child, don't you think?" Al-Mu'alim explains. "But if you choose to be married to an assassin, your child will be the first to have both parents as assassins."

The thought of being married cannot be imagined by Ambra. She tries to imagine herself being a wife of some assassin, and having a son or a daughter raised to be an assassin as well. It is impossible, she concludes. "To be honest, Master, i haven't given it a thought yet." She says. "I always believe that i'll stay loyal to Altaïr and his future family. It is more than enough for me."

To that, Al-Mu'alim chuckles again, "However admirable your loyalty is to him, there is always room for envy and jealousy. As he grows, he'll spend more time with his family, and you might be left alone."

Somehow she doubts that outcome, but she simply smiles, "It's more reassuring to me to know i still belong to someone as honorable as Altaïr, than being freed not knowing with whom i'll end up with."

Al-Mu'alim hums deeply. He has stopped scanning the parchments, instead looking at her. "Being raised in the slavery mill has planted the idea of fear of freedom in your head, doesn't it?"

She looks at him, "I suppose so, Master."

"Or you fear the lack of purpose once freed." He slides a parchment towards her. "Sayyid is here."

Her eyes widen in surprise, quickly, she takes the parchment and read it. She cannot believe what it contains. Sayyid has been sent to Acre a week ago to oversee a slave trade - this means he is closer than she expected. She looks at Al-Mu'alim, "Master, may i -"

"You just returned from your mission, wounded, might i add." Al-Mu'alim replies. "I will not stop you from wanting to do the mission, but remember, don't let your emotions get to you. Empty your heart from anger, and refrain from giving your enemies a painful death. Do you understand?"

She quickly nods, "Yes, Master."

Al-Mu'alim observes her for a while before moving his hand to the drawer of his desk. He takes out a white feather, and slides it over to her. "Then you have my permittion to go."

She accepts the feather and pockets it. "What of the slaves he brings, Master?"

He frowns, "I'll inform the Acre bureau to help transporting them to the refugee village. Focus on your mission. Safety and peace, my child."

"Safety and peace, Master."

 

The quietness of the bathhouse has never been this calm. Altaïr sighs for the umpteenth time, submerged up to his chest in the pool, enjoying the cool water as opposed to the hot temperature of Masyaf. His tensed muscles are slowly relaxing. Occasionally, he wets his face and hair, before tilting his head back against the floor to look at the ceiling.

The journey home from Edessa to Masyaf has been a bit difficult. Under the scorching heat that wore them down quickly, and the cold night air that sent chills to the bone. Malik's wound has to be cleaned and redressed daily to prevent infection, and he took joy on ordering Altaïr for a change.

Speaking of him... Altaïr peeks from under his eyelids to the said man across him. Malik is mimicing his pose, quiet, for once. The wound across his chest has dried and possibly it is going to leave a scar.

"Malik." Altaïr calls.

The dark haired assassin lifts his head, blinking repeatedly before focusing on Altaïr. "Hmm?"

"You haven't told me how the missions went."

Malik frowns, "They were Ambra's, not mine."

"You were there with her."

"I was."

The banter begins to irritate Altaïr, yet Malik remains undisturbed. Altaïr sighs, opening his eyes and lifts his head from the floor to look at him. "She just killed two men associated with the man she intends to kill since the first day she joined us."

Malik cocks his head to the side, cracking his stiff neck. "She handled herself well in combat, but that's not what you're worried about, is it?" His dark orbs are looking at him. "The real question is, why did you come to Edessa?"

"I received a letter from her. She didn't exactly ask permittion before leaving."

"That doesn't answer the question." Malik runs his wet hand through his hair, combing the strands backwards. "You were worried about her, weren't you?"

"I'm still her master and instructor, Malik."

There is a glint in Malik's eyes. A smirk plays on his lips as he speaks, "I've been observing how people change over time, and you have changed the most. Do you think i won't notice your marks on her skin? Sleeping with her, understandably, but marking? Those that last for days, might i add. I first thought your overprotectiveness over her is based on simply being cautious, but now i think i see clearly."

Altaïr huffs, "I went to Edessa to fetch her, true, but i did so because i know she has no sense of direction whatsoever. What's with all these accusations?"

Malik chuckles, "Admit it, you have heart for her."

Altaïr scoffs before sitting straight, then turns around to pull himself up to the floor. The water clinging to his skin is dripping onto the tiles. "Quit poking your nose in my business, Malik."

"I did no such thing."

Altaïr ignores the remark given by Malik as he dries himself with the towel. He puts on his trousers swiftly, then his inner tunic. The still damp skin creates patches on the fabric, but he does not bother to care. His boots are not even strapped properly as he exits the bathhouse.

His...protectiveness of her is simply based on responsibility, that is what he keeps saying to himself. He enjoys her company, that is all - what they do behind closed door is...simple. Carnal desire, lust, with purpose to ease the mind and relax. There is nothing underlying it, right? He just wants a taste of normalcy, and she delivers perfectly.

The door to his room is unlocked - and empty. He frowns, is she still reporting to Al-Mu'alim? Or maybe she went to the garden, that is his initial thought, until he spots a parchment on the table. Along with it is a note that he dreads to read.

'Altaïr, i'm heading out to kill Sayyid. Please forgive me for not speaking to you directly. I leave his whereabout with this note. Ambra.'

How surprising.

Altaïr does not know whether to be angry or proud, knowing that she takes initiative to do another mission on her own, yet leaving without directly asking for permittion again. How urgent is it that she needs to leave immediately? They just arrived in Masyaf this morning, why she insisted to -

The parchment that she left answers his question. Sayyid is travelling to Acre, which puts him closer than expected. An ambush on the road. That will be the first time she will do so.

Altaïr sighs, dropping himself on the chair. Here he hopes to talk to her of her last missions, yet off she goes again. The main concern of him is if she will kill out of hatred - if she will lose herself in the process of vengeance. Maybe i should go with her...

No.

He stops the impulse before he does it. No, he repeats. This is her mission, not his, and certainly she is not instructed to bring help. Trust her, he tells himself, trying to reassure himself that she will be alright. She has grown to be swift and strong throughout the years, despite the small mistakes, she can handle herself, right? Beside, Acre is not that far or dangerous.

But he would be lying if he does not find her absence worrying. Another student has left his care.

 

The journey to Acre somehow sends excitement to Ambra. Here she is, riding under the beautiful night sky, accompanied only by the white horse from Masyaf, and the target is closer than expected. Who does Sayyid bring with him for the trade? Is he well-guarded?

She stops to rest by the river. She slides off the horse and leads it to drink. Watching the river reflecting the starry sky, her mind wanders to the mill. In these three years, what has changed? Is everything alright? Does Jaqq know where she is, or has he given up on searching for her? What of Sofi?

Then her mind wanders to Altaïr. It pains her to leave without telling him directly, but if she did, he will insist on going with her. He came with her when they killed Hayyiz, then Malik came with her to kill Fihr and Akhnas - she wants to do this alone. Besides...

There is a change in Altaïr that she does not know if it is good or not. When he kissed her in the bureau, he looked so...vulnerable. A visible crack of composure, a glint of guilt, what is going on?

And she has come to realization from Al-Mu'alim, that this feeling, whatever it is, and the actions they do in his room will soon perish and be forgotten. He will have a wife and family, and she doubts he will still share the intimacy after marriage. She cannot fall for him too deep - no. And he cannot lower himself to her, no, there is no way in the world he will return her feelings.

Then his actions - what do they mean?

She slumps against the sitting horse, listening to its breathing. Her mind replays every tiny bits she remembers from Altaïr. His coldness and stern scorning, his detailed explanation of many things, his agility, his smile - the corners of his lips would tug upwards slightly, eyes crinkling, and a small sound of laughter would erupt from his mouth. His warm hands and rough palms, his stubbled jaw, the curve of his nose, the bob of his Adam's apple, and his scent. She smiles at the thought, bitterly feeling the pang in her heart. She unconsciously caresses her stub for comfort.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of rape and depiction of abuse.

The gate of Acre is visible in the distance, but that is not Ambra's destination. If she is correct, it will take about two weeks just to reach Masyaf from Tarsus, that is with constant rest. Sayyid brings a caravan, possibly, then by now he should still be on the road, not yet reaching Acre but getting close. Despite her eagerness, her horse requires rest. So she leads it towards the stable.

The stablemaster is not the one greeting her. Instead, two assassins, high ranking, from the looks of their attire. "Safety and peace, sister." They say in unison.

"Safety and peace, brothers." She slides off her horse, leading it towards the trough.

"We received a message from Al-Mu'alim regarding your arrival. We are instructed to assist you after you've taken out the target." One of them says.

Ambra watches as her horse drinks from the trough. "You didn't happen to see a passing caravan, did you?"

"No, why?"

"The target is most likely travelling in group. If he hasn't passed, then it'll be easier to take him out in the open. Less crowded." She frowns, thinking of the best way to kill Sayyid without alerting his guards. She could pretend to be an injured traveler - but what if he recognize her?

She takes her leave on the horse a few moments later, deciding to find Sayyid's group first before jumping into action. The brethren choose to wait by the stable for new instruction. Only this time that Ambra feels a tingling sensation in her hands and feet.

The sun has risen in all its glory in the sky, gracing earth with almost unbearable heat. Ambra has taken the northern road, pacing further away from Acre. Her heart beats loudly in anticipation, right hand holding the handle of her sword, ready for an ambush. This is foolish, she thinks, calculating the result. She could be killed - or worse, captured and returned to Jaqq. She prefers the former.

Her heart nearly stops as she sees a group of people riding towards her. Quickly, she steers the horse aside, out of the road, heading behind rocks. The tingling sensation returns, senses heightened in alertness, and she stops the horse behind the rocks to observe. Calm down... Calm down...

The hooves of the passing group make her anxious. Even more so when the riders come to view. Armored and armed. She observes each faces one by one - there!

The face of Sayyid sends her shuddering in fear and anticipation. She clenches the rein a bit tightly, huffing quietly, as she waits for the perfect time to attack. But her attention is distracted to three armored horsemen. They are riding each with additional person in front of them, hooded - tied hands. Ambra grits her teeth - so that is how they are transporting the slaves...

Quietly, she follows the group, keeping her distance safely. If she is correct, they will soon take a rest by the oasis, and that will be the only chance she has to kill Sayyid. Her heart beats loudly in her ears, anticipating the moment almost impatiently. She only regrets not wielding a crossbow or throwing knives yet, it will certainly help with ranged attack.

The group finally reaches the oasis, and as expected, they stop to take a rest. "Prepare a camp over there - you three, get down and feed those slaves. I want them as presentable as possible!" Sayyid is barking orders to his men.

Ambra slides down from her horse, then ties the rein to a nearby rock. The animal looks at her, and she pats it gently, "Pray for me, yes?" She whispers before taking her leave.

Creeping up to Sayyid's camp proves to be easy. His men are tired and busy obeying his orders, here and there they go around. Ambra peeks from the rocks, calculating. There is only one man guarding the three slaves on the horses, and another one is guarding by the horses. Sayyid is pacing around, talking to an armored knight beside him - is that his personal body guard?

Ambra comes up with a plan. Kill the man guarding the slaves, then tell the slaves to ride to Acre, where the assassins are waiting. She wonders if she can make a loud noise to startle the horses, just as a distraction, so she can go and kill Sayyid. Perhaps flinging a rock at them? She frowns deeply.

This is it then. She takes a deep breath, preparing herself for the worst - killed in mission. Cast away the anger, Ambra, she tells herself. Yet it is impossible for her. Knowing Sayyid, however briefly, he is just as horrible as Jaqq. He likes to punish runaway slaves by carving their skin in idle patterns, simply to hear their scream. Ambra sighs, trembling, as she remembers hearing the painful scream of her friends, and seeing the damage afterwards.

Without hesitation, she decides to start her mission.

Creeping up towards the horses, she manages to silently kill one guard, driving the hidden blade into his neck and closing his mouth. He slumps down to the ground, and hastily, she drags him into the bush. The horses are looking at her now, and she tries to appear as calm as possible.

She sneaks between horses, tying up their reins to one another, suddenly feeling anxious. Then she heads towards the slaves. The guard that is watching over the slaves is distracted by his own meal. Great.

Ambra creeps up behind him, then swiftly, delivers the same killing method. He slumps down to her, and she carefully drags his body between the horses, back towards the bush.

Now the hardest part is over, she heads back towards the slaves.

She stands beside the horse of the first slave, tapping her lightly on the knee. "Hush." Ambra says. "Tell me what you know."

The first slave looks confused. Ambra looks up at her, noticing the dried lips and teary eyes. "Who are you?" The slave whimpers, tongue speaking Armenian.

Ambra has never seen her before. Could she be a new slave? "Did you come from Tarsus?"

The slave nods once, "Yes."

"Do you know how to ride a horse?"

She shakes her head, "N-no. Wait -"

"Hush... I need you to hold the rein in the middle. I will direct the horse towards that way, " Ambra points to where Acre is, "You will ride only to there, and there will be people to rescue you. Don't stop."

The slave's lips are trembling, and Ambra takes hold on her hand.

"I was once in your place, sister. Let me help you."

Ambra proceeds to the next slaves, telling them the same thing, yet neither of them look familiar to her. Where did they come from, she wonders, and to whom they are being sent to?

When everything is ready, Ambra takes a deep breath. She runs between the horses, smacking one of them on the rear as hard as possible - and there it goes. It neighs loudly before making a wild sprint away from the camp. The tied rein drags the other horse with it, and soon all of the horses leave the camp. Ambra watches from behind the bush as the slaves do as she has instructed, kicking the sides of their horses, and off they go, heading to Acre.

The sudden commotion sends the guards jumping from their rest, "What happened?!" One of them shouts.

"The horses are running away!"

"The slaves!"

"Get them!"

"There's no horse!"

Ambra holds back a smirk as she watches the guards trying to run after the horses, some of them try to chase the slaves. But horses run faster, and their attempt fails miserably. Now the killing...

She sees Sayyid emerging from his tent, followed by his bodyguard. "What is it?! What - where are the slaves?!"

"They ran away, sir!" Answers one of the guards.

Sayyid glares angrily, "How in the world do you let them get away?! You fools! Get them back now!"

"The horses, sir, t-there's no -"

The bodyguard steps forward, frowning, "The horses are gone." He observes, watching the guards trying to catch up with their runaway horses. Ambra sees the dangerous glint in his eyes, and suddenly, cold runs up her spine. He is observant. It will be difficult to kill Sayyid around him.

Sayyid is pacing around, stomping on the ground. He points at his bodyguard, "Rajah, i want the slaves back, you hear me? Get them at all cost! It's bad enough for Jaqq to spend so much money on them, it's only worse to lose them before the deal is made!"

Rajah nods, "I will get them, master. But i advise you to wait inside -"

"Of course! Why would i wait out here with these incompetent fools!" Sayyid marches back into his tent, closing the flap with too much force.

Rajah sighs, "You three, guard him and stay alert. We don't want to risk getting jumped by bandits."

"Are you truly going after the slaves?" One of the guards asks.

"I should try. Keep your eyes open." Rajah takes his leave from the camp, half-running towards where the slaves are heading. All three of them are now specks of dust in the distance.

With Rajah gone and Sayyid in his tent, Ambra sneaks behind the rocks towards the tent. The three guards are standing around it, but she only needs to kill one to gain entry. She unsheaths her dagger, feeling her hand sweating around the handle. Here is to hope she won't drop it.

The guard that she targets does not even realize what happens when she leaps out and buries the dagger in his throat. She pulls him downward, letting him bleed onto the ground, twitching, as life drains out of him. Her blood boils seconds before she sneaks into the tent to face Sayyid.

The expression on the said man is unbeliveably angry. He is about to lash out on her for entering his tent, yet his eyes suddenly go wide in terror. Ambra does not let him get a chance to move or speak, and quickly, she lunges at him, burying her dagger into his chest, and the hidden blade into his neck.

Sayyid staggers, refusing to fall. He brings his hands to attack her, punching the side of her face, "Assassin -" he hisses weakly, pulling onto her hood.

Ambra grunts as he wraps his fingers around her neck, choking her tightly. She twists the dagger and plunges it deeper, yet it only makes him angrier. His balance leaves him, and he falls forward onto her. Ambra feels the back of her head makes contact with the hard ground - but that is the least of her concern.

With Sayyid still choking her, she finds it difficult to breathe. Her vision becomes blurry, head becomes lighter, and she gasps for air. Sayyid manages to chuckle. His eyes are glaring at her, "I...know you."

Ambra sheathes her hidden blade, only to move it slightly to the center of Sayyid's neck, then she flicks it out again. He gasps as the blade pierces him deeper, hands tightening around her neck - and she begins to see stars.

"Ambra -" he manages to say before choking on his own blood. His grips loosen from her, and she uses the opportunity to kick him aside. His body slumps on the ground unceremoniously. The eyes are still open, but void of life.

Ambra inhales as much air as she can, quickly wiping the tears forming from her bloodshot eyes. She holds back from coughing in fear of the guards hearing her. The body of Sayyid lying beside her - it almost feels unreal, even as she swipes his blood with the white feather. It is done, she chuckles quietly, Sayyid is gone. Now Jaqq is the last in line -

The flap of the tent is suddenly opened - and Ambra jumps onto her feet. Rajah is standing there, equally as surprised as her, but he acts quicker by unsheathing his sword. "Assassin!"

Out of the mouth of the tiger, into the mouth of the crocodile. Ambra bolts out of the tent, slicing a new opening with her dagger. Her heart beats so loudly, adrenaline pumping, as she heads towards where her horse is. She can hear footsteps behind her, the guards are shouting, their weapons and armors are jingling.

She finally reaches her horse, and with hasty movement, she cuts the rein from where it is tied. She climbs onto it desperately, then begins to pace it away. She can still hear them shouting loudly, and with each one, her heart jumps. She is certain to outrun them, finally gaining a distance from them when -

The sharp pain sends her gasping. Blood squirts out of the wound, staining her horse red. Ambra looks down to see the offending weapon of assault.

An arrow.

She groans loudly, realizing it has pierced her through her left shoulder blade. No, not now, she hisses, pacing the horse to go faster towards Acre. But each movement, each step that it takes, sends a jolt to her wound. She feels her hands slipping from the rein. Everything is spinning, an answer by her overwhelmed mind trying to numb the pain - and before she knows it, the ground looks closer than expected.

She falls without grace. The hard ground accepts her and plays with her body like a rag doll, tossing her around, until the arrow breaks in two. She screams as her shoulder feels burning. She does not know which one is worse, that her horse keeps running away, or that the guards are heading towards her. The possibility of dying by Rajah's blade is more likely, as his face comes into view.

"Well, we got him." Rajah huffs, standing over Ambra. "Not so menacing right now, are you?" He kicks her side, rendering her groaning.

"Should we finish him?" The guard asks.

"No, not yet, at least. You see, very few people get to see the face of an assassin. I guess now we can." Rajah moves his sword to the top of Ambra's hood. He pulls it aside, slicing the material in half in the process. The gasps of the guards are enough answer for her to know they finally realize her gender.

"A woman!" Gasps one of the guards.

Rajah kneels down beside her. His knee is pressing onto her abdomen, knocking the breath out of her. He grabs hold on her chin, keeping her in place - and as much as she wants to lift her left hand and flick the hidden blade to his neck, she cannot feel anything but pain.

"I can't believe it." Rajah scoffs. "Ambra?"

Ambra grunts, slapping his hand off of her chin. He returns with slapping her across the face. "The prodigal slave has returned! All these years, we are but wondering where you ran off to - and here you are! Joining the assassins, i see?"

Ambra swallows her scream as he suddenly pulls her up by the collar of her tunic, forcing her to stand up. She feels two guards grabbing ahold of her arms from behind, holding her in place.

Rajah has an amused look on his face. He motions the guards to drag her back to the camp. She struggles to get away, only to be answered by Rajah's hand pressing onto her wound. "Jaqq will be more than pleased to have you returned. You still remember him, don't you?" His smile falters as he trails his gaze to her neck. She grows stiff as he pulls aside the collar of her tunic, knowing very well of what lies underneath.

The growing laughter of the guards confirms that they see what she hopes to conceal. One of Altaïr's faded marks. Rajah sneers, "Already touched by the assassin, i see?"

Ambra spits at him, but missed, "Better him than J-Jaqq."

Rajah chuckles, "I'd behave if i were you. His loss is our gain. I'm certain he won't mind sharing you with a few guardsmen."


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MENTIONS AND DEPICTIONS OF RAPE AND ABUSE.
> 
> IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY THESE, SKIP THE CHAPTER.

The clang of metals startles Ambra. She opens her eyes and tries to sit up, only to stop as the sharp pain in her shoulder sends her breath away. Where am i? She finds herself in her inner tunic, without trousers - who stripped me? She looks around - is this the tent?

The ground where Sayyid's body once lies is now dark in color. The reality falls to her at the same time - i've been caught. She remembers getting hit by an arrow, then tumbling down the horse, and got captured by Rajah, and now...she shudders, she will be returned to Jaqq.

Her wrists are tied together in front of her body. A rope is tied around one of her ankles, attached around a boulder on the ground. She brings up her hands to her mouth, determined to bite the knot off. Yet a person comes into the tent and interrupts her.

Rajah clicks his tongue, "I treated your wound and you repay with trying to escape."

Ambra struggles to sit up, "I'd rather die than return to Tarsus."

Rajah places his sword aside, "Oh believe me, i was intending to kill you for taking out Sayyid. He may be a sadist, but Jaqq valued him, though not as much as he values you."

She notices him taking off his armor. Her mind races wildly as he observes her armbrace on the ground, along with a pile of her effects. "What are you doing?"

"You see," Rajah takes interest in her dagger. He unsheaths it, then begins to test it on his own. "I used to think carving the slaves is too...ruthless. But years of doing so, i grew to understand and appreciate the concept. Your body belongs to your master, and he'd do whatever he pleases with you until you realize you're entitled to nothing."

She instinctively moves away when Rajah approaches her. He kneels down beside her, one hand grabbing the back of her head and pulls backwards, baring her neck to him. She raises her hands to his neck in attempt to strangle him, but stops as the cold metal blade touches her skin.

He clicks his tongue, "Comply, and i won't damage you that much."

She clenches her teeth, "I'm sure J-J-Jaqq would want me unharmed."

He scoffs that turns into a laughter, "You've been defiled by the assassin for how long - two, three years? A passionate one, i must tell you, though i admit, the marks he left on you are alluring. I'm sure Jaqq won't mind a scar or two." He runs the dagger down the collar of her tunic, slicing through the fabric. Ambra tenses as it slightly grazes the center of her chest.

Her instinct tells her to fight, so she does. With the foot that is untied, she kicks Rajah right on the groin, then pushes him away as far as she can. Rajah groans loudly upon the impact, hunches over and gasps for air. She forces herself to stand up, biting down a groan as her shoulder sends jolt of pain. She tugs on the rope binding her foot -

Rajah recovers faster than expected. He grabs the back of her head, pushing her back to the ground with too much force. Ambra hisses at the impact, a hiss that soon turns into a growl of protest as he runs his other hand under her tunic.

He leans down to her back, forcing his weight onto her. "How feral, Ambra. You were a docile virgin - let's remedy that, yes?"

Her eyes widen in terror, knowing of what will come next. No, no, no - she silently begs, squirming, forcing herself to ignore the feeling. She feels disgusted as his hands roam all over herself, down to between her legs, and she holds herself back from reacting. She closes her eyes - this is just a nightmare, she thinks.

But the searing pain as he impales her sends her back to the harsh reality.

 

How long has it been?

Her stomach is rumbling from hunger, even more so as she smells something cooking outside the tent. Her throat feels dry. She gingerly stirs from where she lies, yet finding her hands tied together above her head.

Did Rajah do that? Or was it the second or the third guard that came afterwards? Her womanhood feels sore and burning. She looks down her clothless body, finding the thin blade lines made by Rajah still adorning her abdomen. The lines that she earned for refusing to make a noise.

In the back of her mind, she keeps recalling one particular moment with Altaïr. He took her on a quiet night, "Hush, Ambra." He muttered softly, hips moving slowly until she was no longer whimpering. "Have self-control now. Do not reach pleasure yet."

How torturous it was for her, to think of other things, to avert her mind somewhere else, despite Altaïr kissing down her neck. Her voice turned into a low moaning when he rolled his hips, and he stopped entirely.

"Self-control." He warned her.

And she breathed out her satisfaction, huffing against his growing thrust, while he himself grunted by her ear. The slaps of their hips echoed in the room, the breathing became ragged. She ran her hands down his arms, then up to tangle with his hair, tugging lightly. She was close, she felt the clenching in her abdomen, even more so when he hastened the pace. "Altaïr -"

"I know." He leaned down to kiss her, "just a little bit more."

He rolled his hips again, and she bit down on his shoulder. He chuckled, pace grew uneven as her walls fluttered against his manhood. "Please..." She muttered.

He hummed idly, "Very well."

His pace was hastened. After what seemed like eternity, she felt her womanhood clenching down on him, making it difficult for him to move. Yet he insisted. They reached the point of pleasure almost at the same time. She bit down a moan, earning a bite on her neck by him, and he spilled himself into her. When they parted, he smirked at her, a proud glint in his eyes.

"That is it. Avert your satisfaction somewhere else. With these walls, the brethren may hear us." And he pulled her in for another kiss.

The flap of the tent is opened, surprising her, and Rajah comes inside, bringing a waterskin and a plate of cooked meat. Her mouth instantly waters from the smell. Yet he simply chuckles, "Everything has a price, you know? While we wait for my men to fetch the horses, you will be trained to obey your master."

The mention of master brings back the image of Altaïr in her mind. What is he doing now? Is he alright?

Rajah sits down closer to her, setting down the plate by her head. "First lesson, if you want something, beg for it."

Ambra glares at him, "I don't beg to anyone."

He produces the dagger to her face. With trained movement, he runs the blade between her breasts, then pressing with enough force to bleed, breaking her skin as he moves it down to her abdomen. She clenches her teeth in response. "Second lesson, don't look at your master in the eyes." He chuckles.

She feels her blood trickling down from her abdomen to her sides. This will heal, she assures herself. This will pass...

The flap of the tent is opened again, and two guards come in. Each of them has an amused look, eyes raking up and down her body. Rajah turns to look at them, "Come in and help yourself to her. She can't go anywhere anyway."

Ambra jumps as he suddenly takes one of her legs, opening it further, baring her womanhood to the guards. She struggles, trying to kick him away, but only results in him laughing.

Rajah presses the dagger once more to her abdomen, "This time, you will scream and beg, or you can starve yourself. Your choice. The less energy you have, the easier for us to enjoy you."

 

Something is wrong, Altaïr is certain, as he makes his way to Al-Mu'alim's quarter. It has been a week since Ambra left for Acre - and he knows for sure it is a three days journey. She should have arrived in Masyaf by now, unless something happens in the city.

Al-Mu'alim glances up from his desk when Altaïr enters, "Ah, i was about to ask for you."

Altaïr frowns, but approaches the desk quietly. Al-Mu'alim waves a parchment at him.

"The Acre bureau sends their regards. The brethren managed to retrieve three female slaves. They confirmed they came from Tarsus." Al-Mu'alim paraphrases the content of the parchment.

"What about Ambra?" Altaïr asks, looking over the parchment.

"The brethren hasn't seen her again." Al-Mu'alim frowns at Altaïr, "certainly you have taught her well, Altaïr, so cast the doubt aside."

Doubt.

Altaïr doubts she is in the perfect state of health right now, but the report begs to differ. She has freed the slaves. That means she has gotten very close to Sayyid to possibly kill him - unless he got to her first.

It is in his room that he tries to affirm the theory. His focus shifts, enabling him to see the trails of golden hue of her. They are still lingering in the places she used to fill. She is still alive. That sends him sighing.

Why are you worried so much about her? He asks himself constantly. He tries to reason with himself, that he simply worries for his student, yet why does he not feel the same towards his other students? They have faced worse and gone longer than her, so why does he feel different now?

He cannot begin to comprehend the need to fetch her from Edessa before. It was an impulse that he feels a need to be there with her. But why?

'You have heart for her.'

Malik's words weigh down on Altaïr. Is it the truth? He sighs, sitting down on the chair, is it the truth? He keeps asking. Yes, he finds her presence to bring peace, and this arrangement - to live unbound to a relationship, yet accompanied by her - is much to his liking. But to actually have heart for her...

Did his father ever love his mother? Did any assassins who got married ever love their significant others? He shakes his head. Stay true to the course, you idiot. So what if he finds her company to his liking? It does not have to mean anything now, does it?

In a few years, someone might come and ask for her hand. She might consider freedom, to have a family on her own, and not be...confined in his room for eternity. Then what about their activities together? If they were for lust, he would not have this...doubt, over his own emotion. He sighs deeply.

His ears overhear a commotion going on in the training field. Shoutings. What on earth are the brethren up to now? He sighs and exits the room, wondering if the students are simply training, or truly fighting without rules.

When he exits the western tower, he finds the source of the commotion. Two students, Rasit and Haras, are surrounded by all instructors, "What is going on?" Altaïr asks, rendering the crowd to slowly turns quiet.

"One of ours has fallen." Rauf replies. "A horse returned this morning without rider. Bloodied, but not its blood."

Altaïr frowns, "Then why the commotion?"

"We didn't mean to - we were a bit loud, i suppose..." Haras replies quietly.

Altaïr sweeps his gaze towards the other instructors, "How many of you have your students out there?"

"Majd and i have our students running missions." Khalid replies.

"Isn't Ambra on mission as well?" Malik asks, for once, face voids of playfullness. He frowns deeply.

With the students hushly whisper around them, it is almost difficult to think. Altaïr barks at them, "All of you, return to your training! Rasit, Haras, you too!"

He watches as the two students scramble away to their brethren. Slowly, the crowd dissipates. Each returning to their training grounds, resuming what they did before interrupted. Majd approaches Altaïr, "Perhaps it's best for us to check the horse. See if there's any crucial information that should be passed to Al-Mu'alim."

"I will go and check." Altaïr replies. It could not have been Ambra, right? He does not know which one is worse, the possibility of her dying, or he wishes dead upon other brethren. He heads straight towards the fortress gate, forcing himself to be as calm as possible.

The footsteps following behind him is familiar, but he does not bother to comment. To what purpose does Malik have to follow him, it is to his own curiosity. The older As-Sayf seems genuinely distressed, as he steadily moves to walk beside Altaïr.

Salaf, the stablemaster, has a deep frown upon seeing Altaïr and Malik approaching. He points to the side of the stable, where a white horse is eating. "It's...there."

Dried blood covers the hair of the horse, some lines have dried along the neck. The two assassins approach with caution. Malik is the first to head to the satchel hanging on the horse's back. "One of ours." He huffs upon seeing the content.

Altaïr observes the bloodstain left on the horse and on the rein. "An arrow or throwing knife," he says, "it pierced him from the left side, but he held onto the rein still."

A part of him hesitates to shift his focus, yet another part cannot miss the chance. If this is not Ambra, then either Majd or Khalid will have to grief the loss of one of their students. But if this is Ambra... Altaïr inhales deeply, silently praying he is wrong.

When his focus shifts and the trails of golden hue appears, he swears his lungs have stopped breathing.

His heart beats rapidly, suddenly he is feeling his hands trembling, shocked from the discovery. "Salaf!" He barks, a bit louder than intended to.

The stablemaster comes running, "Yes, Altaïr?"

"Get me the fastest horse you have." Altaïr turns to Malik. The face of the As-Sayf has turned paler upon the realization. "You will tell Al-Mu'alim i'm off to Acre -"

"No, i'll go with you." Malik barks back, hastily adds. "Salaf! Two horses!"

Altaïr scoffs loudly, "I don't need someone halting me - Malik, return to Al-Mu'alim!"

"The last time we went to kill Jaqq's associates, they had a whole army waiting for us. Who's to say there won't be any this time?" Malik retorts.

Salaf returns hastily before Altaïr can return the jab, bringing two dark horses with him. Altaïr grabs the rein of one, focus shifting to Ambra's horse to make sure her golden hue is still there. Don't lose her, you idiot, he curses inwardly.

"Salaf, tell Al-Mu'alim we're off to Acre." Malik speaks from his horse.

"Yes, Malik."

Altaïr climbs onto his horse, conflicted, angry, and determined. The emotion boils inside him, at the same time it burns his heart. The familiar feeling of impatience washes over him as he paces his horse, followed by Malik, to once again fetch Ambra. His doubt for whatever feeling he has upon her falters. For now, he is certain of one thing.

He cannot lose her.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MENTIONS AND DEPICTIONS OF RAPE AND ABUSE.
> 
> FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE SKIP THE CHAPTER IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY THESE.

"You whore!"

The slap lands across Ambra's cheek loudly. What else is new - she whimpers, feeling the rawness of the skin. But it is nothing compared to the rewarding pain of groan coming from the offender. She turns to look at him.

She spits bits of his ear back to him, taking the sight of him holding the bleeding ear where she has bitten him. She scoffs, tasting blood mixing with her saliva. The guard retreats, manhood softening between his legs.

The flap of the tent is opened, and Rajah comes in. "What happened?"

"She bit me!" The guard replies angrily.

Rajah frowns, yet his eyes bear disappointment. "I told you to keep your distance from her mouth. Go out and get that treated."

The guard struggles to pull up his trousers, all while limping out of the tent. Ambra huffs, swallowing what little of nourishment she can get from the blood in her mouth.

"Your resistance is futile. The horses have arrived, and we'll soon bring you back to Jaqq." Rajah sits down beside her, unsheathing his dagger. He trails the cold metal down her neck to her breast, making a thin line of red behind, rendering her closing her eyes to hold back from the pain. "We will break you day and night. Food and water will only be given to you once you beg -" he trails the dagger lower, passing her hipbone and to her thighs. "And when Jaqq finally have his hands on you, you'd be the same timid slave you were."

Ambra opens her eyes, feeling how heavy the eyelids are. She looks at Rajah, "You would have me returned to him?"

"Of course." He grins wolfishly, circling her knee, drawing a circular pattern over and over again.

She chuckles weakly, "Then you'd be condemning him to death."

He stops his movement, "You're weak and defenseless. I'm certain you'd be the first to die."

She does not know what has gotten into her - either she has lost her mind, or the exhaustion, or she just does not care of whatever happens to her. Being the toy for the guards and Rajah for days, not given food nor water, has made her realize one thing: she is alone in this. Now what matters is how she will go down. Begging shamelessly, or fighting constantly.

She laughs. Her dry throat feels painful from the action. "Hayyiz," she breathes, "Fihr, Akhnas, and Sayyid - who do you think killed all those men?"

Rajah's expression is unreadable, but she takes glory in watching his smug mask falters.

"Putting me so close to J-Jaqq will only do me a service. He'd be dead before he could lay a hand on me." She grits her teeth. This is bad - a part of her says - do not anger him further. He could damage her more. No, he won't, she scoffs. Jaqq would want her in one piece. Alive.

The glint in Rajah's eyes is dangerous, "You will shut your mouth now."

"Or what?" She grunts. "Once i've killed him, you'll be marked for death -"

"Silence!" He presses the dagger to her cheek. Anger is evident in his eyes. "If it's not for your eyes, you'd be dead far sooner. It seems i've been too kind to you."

She watches him standing up, sheathing the dagger. He takes long strides to exit the tent. What is he up to now? Her ears are straining, trying to listen to his muffled speech towards the guards. She sighs, tugging at her hands for many times, flinching as the rope slices her skin upon the same wound. Her stomach feels painful from being empty for too long. Her lips feel chapped, throat dry, and head slightly buzzing. Do not fall asleep - she forces herself to stay awake and alert. The last time she dozed off, she woke up to pain between her thighs, and a disgusting guard above her.

Her mind replays the possibility of how this can be avoided. She should have at least brought help, a fellow assassin from Acre, or Altaïr - ah. Her heart jumps at the thought of him. He would never know where she is. He would think she has run away, or died, and that is it. Will he mourn? Will he continue his life as usual?

If he knows of her situation right now, with her body being defiled and scarred, would he still want her?

The thoughts are halted as the flap of the tent is opened. Rajah enters with three guards - and he is clutching onto the only weapon that builds her fear: a leather whip.

"Bring her outside and tie her up. Let's see if she'll scream this time." Rajah orders.

Ambra bucks away from the touch of the guards, baring her teeth to them, trying to attack. But they are stronger compared to her weakened body. Soon she is dragged upwards to stand, roughly dragged out of the tent, where the hot air and the equally hot sunlight greet her.

She squints to figure out her surrounding. Feeling hot sand under her soles. The gazes of the guards in the camp are full of amusement, as they laugh or trade playful banter about the bare state of her body. Her eyes catch the place where her punishment will take place. Between two palm trees, where two ropes are waiting for both of her hands. She grunts and tries to stand up.

The guards take hold of her wrists, securing them separately on the palm trees. She tries to kick them, but to no avail, and the action only bares her womanhood towards the already amused guards. She pulls against her restrain, hissing, as the wound around her wrists begin to bleed.

Then it comes down on her without warning.

The leather whip lands on her back with force enough to knock breath our of her lungs. At first, there is hot pain, then followed by a more painful one, as her skin has split open from the impact. Before she can regain her composure, the second lashing comes across the first wound.

Her eyes begin to water, throat begging to scream, but she merely whimpers. She forces her eyes to close, meditate, she tells herself. Trying to ignore the pain, she slumps against her restrains, regulating her breathing. Her ears are trying to focus on the sound of the wind.

She feels a hand grabbing her around the neck, choking her. She opens her eyes to find Rajah pulling her off the ground, "Ready to pass out, huh?"

"You wish." She mutters, earning a sharp grip around the neck, tighter than before.

She manages to see him gesturing something to the guards. The next thing she knows, Rajah is forcing her mouth open by pressing onto her cheeks, one thumb on one cheek, the forefinger on the other one. The pressure he gives renders her to open her mouth in protest. She tastes leather - she bucks instinctively, feeling hands tying the leather around her head.

Rajah releases her once what seems to be her dagger holster is strapped tightly around her mouth. "If you behave like an animal, you'd be treated like one." He smirks, taking a few steps back from her. The leather whip in his hand is threatening to lash at her torso.

When the next lashing comes down across her chest, Ambra cannot hold back her scream.

 

Each second passes only makes Altaïr more anxious.

His rest throughout the journey is short and tensed. Not even Malik utters a word. Now that they have reached the gate of Acre, Altaïr is torn between going into the city to look for her, or to head out and search for her on the road. His focus shifts, trying to find any signs of the fleeting golden hue of her. Yet he finds nothing.

What did the report say? The brethren of Acre did not see her for the second time? Could she be on the road?

Altaïr paces his horse towards the northern road. Malik finally speaks out, "Where are you going?!"

"She's not in the city, Malik!" He barks back, forcing his horse to run faster. Now that he is so close, he begins to wonder if it is too late. What if he is too late?

 

There is so much a person can take, and Ambra is certain she is at her limit.

Her will to live is strong, her mind is willing, yet her body cannot sustain the damage anymore. This is the second day she has been tied up outside, receiving lashing at day, occasionally be used by the guards to fulfill their needs. Her head has been throbbing for a while now. Her joints are aching. Whenever she makes a small move, she feels pain, searing deeper into her flesh and bone.

She huffs a shuddering breath through the leather holster. Curse Rajah and her sadistic streak. He purposefuly put this on her to make her scream, to cause her saliva to drip down like a dog under summer's heat.

If she dies today, will it be worthy? She can just give up, relent, be the timid slave he wants her to be. She can begin to beg, and all of these would stop immediately. No, she shakes the thought away. She has gone this far. It will mean nothing if she gives up.

The footstep of Rajah is loud on the sandy ground. He is playing with the dagger, flipping it in his hand, all while circling her tied body. "It will all be easier if you just comply."

He stops behind her. His hand moves to her stomach before dropping lower to her sore and bruised womanhood. His other hand is trailing idle patterns on her back with the dagger.

She tenses as he inhales from her neck, "You smell like my men."

He lets her go, letting her to slump forward, her knees are trembling. When she hears the familiar sound of leather whip being unrolled from its place in Rajah's belt, she lets out a small whimper. Bracing herself for the incoming impact, she wonders which one will come first, her death or his.

 

The chill running down Altaïr's spine turns into a boiling anger at the sight he is presented with. He watches as lashing upon lashing is bestowed upon Ambra's naked body. She looks lifeless like this, unmoving, not responding. His focus shifts to find her golden hue still there, fleeting, weaker, but it is still there. She is still alive. Barely.

"Altaïr." Malik grits his teeth.

Altaïr turns to him, finding hatred in the face of Malik upon what happens. "No one survives." Altaïr growls.

When they march towards the camp, swords unsheathed, the guards are alerted. The lashing stops. Who seems to be the leader, the one who lashes Ambra, is barking orders at his men. Altaïr catches a glimpse of Malik jumping down his horse to kill the guards, stabbing one with the hidden blade, and the other with the sword.

Altaïr jumps down his horse as well. No mercy. With trained and swift movement, he slices through the enemies as if they were nothing. His focus shifts constantly, one to count the enemies, two to ensure Ambra is still alive. His blade cuts through the neck of an unfortunate soul, splashing his tunics with red.

The leader begins to move, frantically whipping at him. Yet Altaïr simply slices the whip with his sword, then, registering the startled look on that face, Altaïr lunges at him. Hidden blade buried deeply into the neck, squirting blood to the front of his tunic and his hood. Altaïr glares into his eyes, enjoying the way life leaves the body, grunting angrily.

He is certain he has sent the message clear without even saying anything.

Altaïr stands up to look around the camp. Malik has killed a number of guards on his own, clean and precise. He is missing a few throwing knives on his belt. Now...

The weight of reality is unbearable for him to face. Here he stands in front of Ambra, watching her hanging by the ropes around her bleeding wrists. She has slumped forward, hair covering her face. His gaze trails throughout her body, finding the newly made wounds, finding how the enemies have ruined her body.

He finds dried blood on her skin. This has been going on for days... He is unsure of what to do now. To come up to her and let her go, that is for one. But to say what?

Malik throws something at him from the corner of his sight, and Altaïr manages to catch it before it hits him. A blanket. "Cover her while i cut her loose." Malik says quickly.

Altaïr moves forward towards Ambra, wrapping the blanket around her body - he pauses as he hears her whimpering in pain. "I got you." He mutters quietly. Carefully, he sweeps her off of her feet, into his arms. Her head tilts backwards with the motion, and his breath stops upon seeing her face.

The leather holster holding her mouth open is stained with both blood and saliva. He brings her to sit down once her hands are freed, intending to remove the offending material from her mouth. But Malik is quicker, hidden blade springs out to cut the leather holster that bites into her skin. He discards the material aside.

"Gather her stuff and whatever you can find about Jaqq and his slavery mill." Altaïr says to Malik, trying to keep calm, despite his heart beats rapidly in his chest. The older As-Sayf does not say a word as he goes to do what he is asked to do. Right now, Altaïr's attention focuses on Ambra.

He carries her towards the water, holding onto her body as carefully as he can, as if she can wither any time now. She feels lighter than before, paler, and almost dying. Did they not feed her?

He sets her down under the shade of a date tree. Fingers threading through her matted hair, feeling blood and sticky substances he does not dare to wonder about. Her cheeks bear the mark from the leather holster, raw and bruised. The lower lip is split, bleeding, and dried.

He takes her hand gingerly, running his gaze to the marks made around her wrist. It will certainly leave a scar. He opens the blanket that envelops her body. She whimpers again, but he needs to see more of the damage.

The blade trails left on her skin is mixed with the lashing wounds. Some are still fresh. There are bitemarks left on her breasts and waist, of course, he clenches his fists, realizing that they bedded her. He heaves a heavy sigh before hovering over her, holding her cheek gently, "Ambra, look at me."

 

The voice of Altaïr is the first thing she hears. She opens her eyes, blinking slowly. Have i died yet? She finds Altaïr looking at her. How calming it is to find his sharp hazel eyes gazing at her emerald ones. He looks agitated and worried. I have died, haven't i?

She opens her mouth to speak, "Altaïr..." Is all she manages to croak. The simple call of his name sends him smiling on the side of his face.

Everything feels painful, even when she places her hand over his own, to feel his skin and warmth. He sighs heavily, dropping his forehead to her. "Next time, we'll go together, understood?"

She feels him pecking a kiss to her lips carefully, before pulling back. She tightens her grip on his hand, "You can't die too."

He chuckles, "It won't be easy to kill me."

She sighs, feeling weary, "I'm tired."

"Stay with me for a while." He nudges her slightly, and she hisses upon the contact with her raw skin. He looks apologetic for once. "Ambra," he calls sternly. The beautiful golden orbs are dark and concerned. The forehead full of frowns only make him look older than he really is. "Must i order you?"

She huffs, muttering an apology before the exhaustion takes her. It is safe now. She is safe. Altaïr is here. Everything will be alright.


	33. Chapter 33

The news of Ambra's wounded state spreads throughout the fortress quickly. She has been placed in Zahra's house, the only potent female healer that Altaïr can trust. Although there is nothing else she can do except to treat her extensive wounds. Her mission is a success. With Sayyid dead, the only one left is Jaqq. The scrolls that Altaïr and Malik bring from the camp where they held Ambra have proven to bear more information regarding Jaqq and his slavery mill.

Al-Mu'alim takes the news of Ambra's incident a bit hard, and so is everyone. Even Malik has refrained from making a joke every now and then, and he scowls so much that he looks menacing than he used to be. Tholeb has taken the liberty to inform Hamzah and Sofyan of the situation. At least the training still continues as it is supposed to be.

Altaïr glances at the sleeping student from where he sits by her cot. Night has just fallen in Masyaf. She would wake up any moment now, or be roused awake, so that she can eat and take more herbs. He has not seen her awake yet, and now he is determined to be present when it happens.

Ambra's eyelids flutter open. She sighs, eyes wandering around the ceiling, until they focus on him. He smiles a bit, "Good evening."

Her smile grows. The split lower lip has healed in these days she has been resting here. "Good evening, Altaïr."

Carefully, she sits up, wrapping the blanket tighter to her bandage-covered body. The wounds are still healing, though some has dried. Her dark hair fans out to her torso. He sits closer to her, tucking the strands behind her ear, "How are you feeling now?"

The blush of her cheeks answers him. Days ago, she was pale enough that he is certain she has lost so much blood. "I feel better, thank you." She replies, smiling as he runs his fingers through her hair. He should not do this, he tells himself. Zahra or Abdullah can come in anytime, and if they see them like this - who cares? Ambra looks up to him, "How was your day?"

He stops caressing her head, now taking her hand in his. "As usual. Though you're missing quite a number of action."

She looks at him, such gentle gaze despite the pain she must be in. "How are you?"

He sighs, "I should be the one asking you that."

"I'm sorry..." Her smile falters. "I didn't mean to leave without asking your permission, but i was in a hurry, and -"

"It's not a reason to be reckless." He interjects sharply. "I've read your briefing. There was enough time to catch up with Sayyid in the city. You could have waited for me."

"I - i'm sorry..."

He inhales deeply, "How...how long have they treated you that way?" He gestures to her body. It is a foreign feeling for him, to symphatize with her pain. When she passed out by the oasis, he tried his best to stop the bleeding, to administer first aid, however minimal it was. He was certain she would die before reaching Masyaf.

She frowns deeply, eyes avoiding him as she answers, "I don't remember."

He takes her chin and turns her to him, "What do you remember?"

She shudders, as if remembering what has passed, and he regrets asking that question. "An arrow pierced my left shoulder, and i fell off the horse. Rajah and the guards recognized who i am, and they were going to bring me back to J-J-Jaqq. But -" her nose twitches as if in disgust, "t-they saw your mark on my neck. So they deemed me defiled and...well...it's self-explanatory from there."

Ah, Altaïr feels a bit guilty for leaving deep marks on her body. It has become a habit, something that he enjoys greatly during their activity, to leave his marks on her skin. He finds her reaction and the result to be satisfactory. Yet after knowing that Malik and those enemies have seen the marks, sort of makes Altaïr wonder if he should not mark her neck. However alluring it is... "And the blade wound? I saw many uninterrupted lines on your body."

"That's Rajah's doing. He was Sayyid's bodyguard." She absentmindedly kneads over her abdomen, "They favored scarring the slaves as punishment. Rajah did so because i refused to scream."

"Which one was he?"

"Uh... The one with the whip."

Altaïr scoffs, i was right to deliver painful death to him. His expression must have hardened, because Ambra then tugs his hand gently, eyes looking up at him.

"If... If it's any consolation, i did not scream, Altaïr." She utters hushly.

His mind is flooded with the image of the guards taking their turns on Ambra, using her to their advantage - and she had to bear with it, all while being tortured to elicite a reaction out of her. He remembers the bitemarks left on her skin, and his blood boils at the imagination. How many times did she pass out? How long did it go on? Stupid - he should have gone after her in the first place.

"Altaïr," she calls worriedly. "I'm here now. I'm alright."

Is it? Then why does he still feel angry - and to whom? To himself? To her? To the guards who defiled her? She reaches out for his left hand, and he feels her caressing his stub, an action that she has taken for comfort. He sighs heavily, shaking his head, "You could have died." He shakes off the thought of losing her while she is right in his hands. "I rode with you back to Masyaf, and you were so weak, unconscious - by Allah, you were dying. Did you not think of your actions beforehand? Did you think i won't feel responsible for your death?"

His voice must have risen, because Ambra is hushing him quietly, both hands stroking his own. "Altaïr," she calls. "Altaïr, please look at me -"

The door is opened, and immediately both her and him pull away from each other. Zahra walks in, carrying a bowl of food. "Ah, you've regained your colors! The herbs seem to be working, my dear." She smiles, though it falters as she glances between Altaïr and Ambra. "What happened here? Why the sour faces?"

Altaïr looks up once at Ambra, finding her emerald greens so wide and a bit wet. He reaches out his hand to her, stopping to pat her on the shoulder, "Get well soon. You have a lot of training to do."

She nods once, "Thank you, Altaïr."

"You're leaving already?" Zahra clicks her tongue as Altaïr walks past her. There is no use for him to stay here any longer. Ambra is awake and alive. She will be alright - did she not say that too?

The room feels a bit different, so is he. Lying down on the carpet, his focus shifts to find her golden hue staining the empty space beside him. What is happening to me? He hates dependency, and right now, it feels like his peace of mind is dependent on Ambra's presence. Stop it, he tells himself. I was alright before she arrived, i was still alright whenever she is absent, i should be alright too right now...

He rolls to his side, forcing himself to sleep. The words of Malik are echoing in his head. He unconsciously growls. I do not have heart for her.

But so what if i do?

 

Ambra rolls her shoulders in front of the mirror. There is still a bit of pain whenever she raises her left shoulder too high. Her eyes identify each and every one of the new scars she now has. Her torso has lost its smoothness, now jagged and textured, like rough bark of a tree. The worst is the wounds from the whip. They create bigger scars than the dagger.

She finds no pain at all in her womanhood. Silently, she is grateful that Rajah and his men refrained from spilling their seeds inside her, to avoid her being pregnant by other than Jaqq. But still... She still remembers how disgusted she was, unable to fight the guards away. She found no pleasure in their doings, and apparently it frustrated them, hence the bitemark on her breasts.

But the big question now, for her, is how would Altaïr react?

His last visit brought unresolved problem for both of them. He made his meaning clear that she was reckless, and too hurried in making decission. Knowing that she has been defiled by so many men, she supposes she should be prepared in case Altaïr shows disgust to her. Or unwilling to have her again.

She puts on her clothes quickly, fingers hooking her belt from the front before turning it to the back. She hesitates when she puts on a new leather holster over her shoulder, recalling its last use, and the feeling of humiliation it brought to her, having her panting and drooling like a dog. Sighing, she puts it on, then securing a new dagger to it.

When Ambra exits the resting chamber to the front of the store, Zahra turns around to her. "Look at you. A whole month, and you're a new woman."

"Thank you for taking care of me." Ambra says, taking in the embrace that Zahra offers, though her eyes fall to someone standing by the door. Kadar is flashing a grin at her, face lights up. "Kadar."

"Oh yes," Zahra releases Ambra, putting a hand behind her back to usher her to the waiting As-Sayf. "He brought you your attire."

Ambra approaches Kadar, and the youngest As-Sayf immediately stretches out his arms to hold both of her upper arms. The familiar gesture she shares with her brethren, as she reaches out to hold his arms as well. "How are you feeling?" He asks, voice sounds deeper - has he matured so much all these years?

"Much better. How are you? Why didn't you come visit me?" She notes the slight change in his appearance. He has grown taller, now having a thin beard on his chin, almost in resemblance to Malik.

Zahra laughs, "My dear, you were clothed merely in bandages. It won't be appropriate for him to visit you."

Ambra turns to her, "What about Altaïr?"

"Well," Zahra chuckles nervously, "he was persistent. Thank goodness he only came that one time, or i might have to clothe you thoroughly."

That one time being weeks ago, Ambra frowns. He...must have been busy. After all, he has many missions to accomplish. She forces a smile to Zahra, "I'll be taking my leave now. Thank you again for the hospitability."

The change of air in Masyaf is evident. It is still summer, with unbearable heat, but the night air has grown chilly. The dark sky is dotted with stars, a beautiful view that Ambra never gets tired of. Kadar shows more enthusiasm than her. "Since this is your first day of recovery, may i take you somewhere?"

She look at him, "Hmm? Where?"

"Just over here." He gestures towards a path leading to a group of houses.

"Is this a surprise?" She grins.

"There's something i want to show you." He fastens his pace.

The path that Kadar takes leads them to a small house, secluded by the canyon. Its wooden fence is crooked and weathered, with the house itself looks empty and abandoned. But what catches her attention is a large, extensive shrub of flower, with pink petals. Kadar jumps over the fence and into the garden, then sits down on a stone bench beside the house.

Ambra follows, "Kadar, what is it?" She sits down beside him.

He has lowered his hood, baring the short black hair to the night air. "This used to be my family's house." He pats the bench with a smile on his face. "When Masyaf was sieged by Salah Al-Din, my father brought Malik and me to the fortress. With the training and missions, we rarely had time to visit this place. Then after our father passed away, there was no reason for us to return here."

She imagines young Malik and Kadar playing in the garden, around the flower shrub. The thought sends her smiling widely.

"This," he points to the flower shrub in front of them, "is the damask rose. Our mother planted it before the house was built. It's a shame that she hasn't seen it blooming yet." He turns to her, "she passed away when we were small. Illness."

"I'm sorry." Ambra mutters quietly.

Kadar smiles gently, "I figure you might need a change of scenery after spending so much time indoor." Ambra is startled as he suddenly puts his hand over hers, "you're like a sister to me, even Malik seems to see you so as well. I'm happy that you're physically well, but please, be honest with me, how are you really?"

The question sinks her heart into the pit of her stomach, somehow blocks her throat, making tears threatening to overflow. The look on Kadar's eyes is of concern. "Kadar, i -" she sniffles, wiping a renegade tear that falls to her cheek. "I'm scared..."

"I believe you are."

She sighs, slumping forward to hunch over her knees, propping her face in her hands. "This is different. I'm not scared of what they did to me - it's expected, in fact, i've faced lashing before. I even came to terms with the possibility of death. It's..." She huffs violently, "by now, i should tell you that me and Altaïr - we...you know..."

His eyebrows raise to his forehead, "Ah, yes, Malik mentioned of your relationship."

She is taken aback, "He did?"

"Well, he did so to warn Bilal." Ah, the gentle and attentive student of Malik - Ambra knows him, having trained with him whenever Altaïr is on a mission. She cannot lie, he is attractive and charming, but that is it. "What of you and Altaïr?" Kadar continues.

"Oh, about that..." Ambra clears her throat. "Right now, i'm more afraid of facing him."

Kadar frowns, face resembling Malik so much when he is like this. "Why?"

"You know what he is like when he is angry. What if he's angry with me? I left without asking permittion, i got captured, then he and Malik had to rescue me - i made him worry. It's not something a master should do, worrying for his servant." She explains. "Tell me, Kadar, who sent you to fetch me at Zahra's?"

"No one - but i asked Altaïr for your clothes."

Ah, her heart aches. Is he avoiding me?

Kadar pats her shoulded lightly, "I never understand how Altaïr really is. If anyone knows him better, i'd say it's you." He takes her hand again, and she clenches tightly. "If it makes you feel better, we can stay here for a while. I have a story to tell. So, last week..."

And the youngest As-Sayf continues telling the story of his training, all while grinning from ear to ear. His relaxed state is contagious, and soon Ambra finds herself smiling at him. The night air blows gently, caressing the rose shrub in front of them, bringing silence with it. This is peaceful, she thinks, watching Kadar's expression changes to match his story-telling. How comforting his presence is, making her forget of the scars marking her body.

 

She is returning soon, Altaïr finds himself thinking of what to say to Ambra. Sitting on the chair, sharpening his hidden blade, he is lost in thought. A part of him is still angry, either at her or himself or the enemies, he does not know. Another part of him is glad that she still has all of her limbs and eyes - he thought for sure that the wounds around her wrists would result in the amputation of her hands.

Al-Mu'alim gave his verdict this afternoon. Ambra's way of carrying the mission was careless. A caught assassin is a dead assassin. Her action may cost her her rank, or worse, death. Even worse, she indirectly caused two instructors to abandon the fortress and rescue her.

Altaïr sighs heavily, recalling the Grand Mentor's words to him. "Her punishment rests on you. Refrain from physical, if i may suggest, now that she suffered some and lives." Well, there is one punishment he has in mind.

The door to his room is knocked. "Come in." He replies, not bothering to turn around to look.

The door is opened slowly. He can feel Ambra's presence entering the room, carefully closing and locking the door behind her. "Safety and peace, Altaïr." She speaks quietly.

"Safety and peace." He turns to her, keeping himself expressionless, despite seeing the fear in her face. "I see you were occupied with Kadar, else you'd be here earlier."

"N-no - i -" her eyes flick up to him, only briefly, then her gaze falls to the floor. "I'm sorry to make you wait."

He scoffs, "Is a month of rest enough for you?"

"Yes, Altaïr."

"Good. We'll pick up where we left off tomorrow. Go and get ready to sleep." He turns back to the table and continues sharpening his hidden blade. Calm down, he tells himself. This is the punishment he has in mind: distance. She can endure physical abuse, why not let her endure the emotional one? See if it will break her spirit for revenge or it will strengthen her will to survive.

He hears her shuffling by the wardrobe, removing her effects with careful movement. The only sound filling the silence between them is the scrape of the sharpening stone against the blade. As much as he would like to raise his voice on her, it will only be the reaction she seeks. Do not react to her, treat her mistake as if it were made by other brethren, distance himself from her - despite a part of him wanting to undo whatever it is that the enemies have done to her. Let her reflect on her own mistake.

"Are you not coming?" Ambra asks as she sits on the carpet. He manages to catch a glimpse of her dark hair, now longer, flowing down.

"Later. Go ahead without me." He replies curtly.

She hesitates, and as expected, she voices out her concern. "May i help you?"

"No. Sleep, Ambra."

She makes no move to slide under the blanket, eyes still locking onto his side profile, as if waiting.

He sighs, "I won't ask again. Sleep now."

She flinches, "Y-yes, Altaïr."

He leers at her to make sure she obeys him. She has slipped under the blanket, confusion is etched on her face as she rests her head on the pillows. Counting in his mind, he waits for her to sleep, yet he keeps catching her stirring around. Wait a little bit more...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! It's high season for tourism, and work is getting a bit hectic.
> 
> And sorry for causing so much pain for the last 3 chapters!


	34. Chapter 34

The morning comes as a surprise to Ambra.

She finds herself alone on the carpet. Altaïr's side is cold, as if he has not slept there - or did he leave early in the morning? She sits up, rubbing her eyes, carefully looking around the room. It seems her fear has come true. He is avoiding her.

She cannot blame himself, though, any self-respecting master knows a ruined slave is worthless. But Altaïr is - she forcefully shakes off the thought of him. Their years living together, the activities, the trust he has shown many times, those are different. Perhaps, he has come to see the reality now, that she is only his servant, bound to his will, whatever it is.

And she cannot blame him for making her fall for him.

Sighing heavily, she stands up from the carpet. You can endure this, she tells herself. There is no need for her to overthink of what Altaïr wants of her, it is simple, just do whatever he asks and do not defy him. It is her duty. Action-based decisions, never sentimental - she heads to the wardrobe to get ready, choking back tears. At least he is not Jaqq, she finds herself thinking gratefully.

Altaïr is not in the dining hall either, but at least the brethren are. Tholeb approaches her with arms wide open, almost pulling her to a hug, if it is not for his students' startled gasps. "How are you, sister?" He asks, ushering her to his table.

"Much better now. How are you? Are these yours?" She returns the question, eyes glancing from one new face to another. They look so young, possibly younger than her, and they have the same confused stare.

Tholeb chuckles, "They're still novice, and a handful to deal with."

"Hey!" One of the students protests, resulting in Tholeb laughing.

"Quite a mouthful too." Ambra mutters, smiling at them. She returns her gaze to Tholeb, noting his new air of authoritative. How confident he seems, yet still retaining the same cheerful attitude. Somehow he resembles Rauf - the said instructor is talking with Abbas on their table.

Ambra begins to eat while listening to Tholeb's story of his students. The new recruits are groaning in protest, occasionally returning the banter, almost as if they are forgetting whom they are talking to. Tholeb does not seem to mind, in fact, he returns their retorts with his own witty ones. She has to chew thoroughly to make sure not to choke in the middle of his anecdote.

"I don't mean to change the topic, but have you seen Altaïr, Tholeb?" She asks after finishing her plate.

One of Tholeb's students let out an audible gasp, and it catches both her and Tholeb's attention. "I'm sorry - Altaïr?" The student repeats.

"Yes, actually. He said he'd be in the meditation room." Tholeb replies, then turns to his student. "Show some respect to her - and lower your gaze."

That is strange. Altaïr rarely uses the meditation room. Whenever he wants to meditate, he will be in the room, unless - she inhales sharply. Unless he is avoiding me...

"Thank you, brother." She smiles tightly to Tholeb, "safety and peace."

"To you as well, sister."

What is going on? They were moving forward, now they are moving backwards. Ambra cannot wrap her head around the problem. As much as she wants to confront Altaïr about it, she remembers that he is above her in social standing. A master to a servant. Whatever treatment he wishes to do to her, she has to willingly accept it. So... She sighs heavily, eyes looking at the door of the meditation room. I might as well get used to it...

Her feet turns away towards the castle. She puts up a mask of ardent composure. If she were any other assassins, she would have to return to Al-Mu'alim to report her mission. The inside of the castle is cooler than the outside air. The courtesans in the garden catch her walking up the stairs, and they wave their hands at her, to which she replies with a wave and a smile, before heading upstairs to Al-Mu'alim's quarter.

The Grand Mentor raises his head when she enters, "Oh, Ambra."

"Safety and peace, Master." She says, stopping in front of his desk.

Al-Mu'alim smiles at her, "Safety and peace, my child. What brings you here?"

"I..." She inhales deeply, "I'm here to apologize for my reckless behavior. I underestimated the mission, and ended up captured, and i have troubled the instructors." She lowers her head to the floor. "If there is any punishment, i will do it, Master."

He hums idly, "How goes the mission?"

She flicks her eyes to him, "Sayyid and his men were camping on the northern road by the oasis. There were three slave women with them, but i've not met them before. I released the horses and told the women to head to Acre, where the brethren from the bureau were waiting, then i headed into the tent to kill Sayyid. Unfortunately, his bodyguard saw me. An arrow pierced me as i was riding the horse. They recognized who i was, and intended to bring me back to Tarsus."

He nods, acknowledging the report, "So if only Altaïr and Malik did not come to your aid, you would have been in Tarsus right now, killing Jaqq."

As horrible as it sounds, is it not the truth? She bites her bottom lip out of nervousness, "Possibly yes, Master. Though i'm grateful they came."

Al-Mu'alim's face falls into seriousness all of the sudden, "Be that a warning for you, Ambra. Next time may not be as merciful as this one. You may as well kill yourself than risking revealing the Brotherhood to the enemies."

She swallows thickly, "Yes, Master."

"I have no punishment for you - the wounds you suffered are punishment enough. But Altaïr may have his own punishment for your recklessness. Be ready to accept it. Safety and peace, Ambra."

"Safety and peace, Master."

With that, one burden is liften from her heart, though another burden has fallen. Is avoidance Altaïr's way of punishing me? She wonders as she exits the castle. But why would he choose such punishment?

The said man is leaning against the fence of the sparring ring. He looks unamused, and by Allah, he looks scarier than usual. The air he carries is dangerous, even more so while his hand is playing with his dagger, and the simple action sends her heart jumping. She approaches him, hesitantly, "Safety and peace, Altaïr."

He scoffs - she flinches. "Unsheathe your dagger. We'll practice immediately."

Is rudeness a part of his punishment too? She cannot wonder why as he suddenly attacks before she can unsheathe her dagger. Instinctively, she moves backwards, hand taking the handle of her own dagger, then parries his next attack. She grunts as her left shoulder feels stinging from the impact.

Altaïr attacks again, this time, Ambra switches the dagger to her right hand. She is taken aback at the strength he is using against her, almost to the point of ruthlessness. She tries to shove him away upon the next attack, but he is unmoving, daggers clashing in mid-air.

"Seems you still remember your training." He huffs, pushing her off.

She moves backwards, biting back a reply, despite how much she really wants to. Her silence must have irked him, because the next attack he gives creates a spark between their daggers. He is mad at me, she thinks, eyes glancing to see his golden orbs glinting sharply. This is not good...

Their training today sends Ambra to be on edge constantly. For once, she fears for her life. Her senses are alerted whenever she sees Altaïr, as if the man can attack her any moment now. In the dining hall, she seeks comfort by sitting with Malik's students, sighing deeply upon seeing Kadar's friendly smile.

"Malik was looking for you earlier." Kadar says over dinner.

Ah yes, she has not seen Malik yet. "Where is he?"

"The library or the garden -" Kadar pauses suddenly.

Ambra frowns, confused. "Kadar?" The youngest As-Sayf flicks his gaze to her wrist, only now seeing the deep scar around the wrist that is not concealed by her armbrace. Ambra pulls her hand under the table, "Sorry."

"There's no need to apologize," Bilal chimes in from beside her, and she turns to look at the gentle student. In all the years she knows him, he is proven to be deadly during sparring, as he has managed to break most of his opponents' noses. But outside the training ground, he is calm and somewhat...confident. "May i see it, if it's alright?"

Ambra blinks repeatedly, processing the request. She pulls the armbrace back a little to show him the scar, finding his eyes observing it intently, but never touching. "Are you not disgusted?" She asks.

Bilal looks at her, "I have my own scars, Ambra. Yours are healing nicely."

"I should thank Zahra for that." She chuckles.

"If you're planning to see my brother, better leave early. He doesn't like to be disturbed once he is invested in a book." Kadar speaks. "I disturbed him once, and he made me copy a whole chapter of a book."

The gentle warning rests in the back of Ambra's mind, silently imagining the older As-Sayf when he is angry - it does not take much to imagine, he looks angry when he frowns. She finishes her dinner early and takes her leave to the castle. At least she should say thank you to Malik, he has helped her tremendously.

As expected, Malik is sitting behind a table, books are opened around him. A lantern is lit in the center of the table, illuminating him. His mouth has turned downwards in a scowl as his dark orbs are scanning the pages in front of him. She approaches carefully, making her presence known, "Safety and peace, Malik."

Malik's eyes glance to her briefly, then to the pages again, only to flick back at her. "Ambra - safety and peace." His face lights up as he smiles, flashing a line of teeth to her. "Sit down now. I didn't expect you to be here, i thought you already return to the room with Altaïr. But my, how are you?"

"I'm alright now, Malik. I haven't thanked you for what you did." She returns the smile to him. "Thank you so much for helping me, and for saving me."

He waves the remarks off, "It's nothing. Though now that you've seen the risk this life possesses, you should be careful next time."

"I will, Malik." She nods.

His eyes flick downwards to her body, briefly, before flicking up to her face. "It's not my place to ask, but i'm concerned either way. You don't seem disturbed of what they've done to you." He reaches out his hand to her, touching the scar on her wrist, visible from where she pulled the armbrace up to show it to Bilal. "I was certain it will break you."

She suppresses a ticklish laugh as Malik's fingers trail a line on her scar, as if feeling the rough texture. "I've faced similar treatment before, Malik, it's nothing new."

"Even down below?" He asks, hand stops to encase around her own. His palm is as rough as Altaïr's, wider, and warmer.

She shakes her head, blushing, "I have Altaïr to thank for that. He taught me how to suppress my voice."

"Ah," Malik clears his throat, chuckling. "Seems he knows more than he shows, yet he stubbornly admitted less than he feels." He pats her hand before taking his hand off of her. "In all the years that i know him, he is always the same arrogant man who is indifferent to anything or anyone around him. Sure, he is skillful and of higher rank, but outside of the life as an assassin, he cares for nothing. Not even to the earthly pleasure the courtesans offer. But you," he points at her, "you came out of nowhere, and he was forced to be responsible for you. I was certain he was going to give you up, but no, he holds onto you. Quite possessively, i must admit."

Ambra holds back her blush.

"When i learned that he has bedded you, i found it to be a bit out of character. He marked you - even when i bedded the courtesan, i never leave a mark. I'll tell you what a mark means, but tell me first, what do you think of it?" Malik cocks his head to the side, propping it on his hand on the table.

Ambra tries to find the right word. "I don't know. My knowledge in intimacy is not as extensive as yours, Malik. I always believed it to be similar to a kiss...?" She tries to guess.

Malik chuckles, "A mark symbolizes possessiveness, Ambra. This is purely speculation, but i believe Altaïr marked you as his to his own pleasure. You know, as a reminder that you belong to him."

Now she is confused, thoroughly, "But i do belong to him. I'm his servant."

"No - goodness, did he bed you as a master to a servant, or did you give willingly?" Malik suddenly glares.

"Oh - willingly. I...started to have the urge, and..." She stops as she sees a playful smirk on Malik's face. "W-well, we both indulged, that it is."

"Ah, so he bedded you as an equal. That is even more fascinating."

"What is?"

"He has a heart for you." Malik elaborates. "I always keep an eye on the brethren around me, even to the guards, Ambra. When we found you in that camp, i saw Altaïr killing mercilessly and painfully for the first time. Then when we rode back, he kept checking on you, i saw him muttering something in your ear."

She tries to remember the details of what happened, but her memory only serves her up until she passed out. She remembers him telling her to stay awake, and the gentle kiss he gave - "I thought i died, and he was too."

"I'd think the same seeing the state of you. That aside, as a brother and a friend, i must warn you to be careful of him. His actions or words may cause you harm, and his display of affection may be different, but if both of you want to pursue the relationship, you may work it out together - why are you glaring at me?"

Ambra blinks repeatedly, "I'm sorry - you were saying he has feeling for me?"

Malik raises an eyebrow, "And you don't?"

"Malik, i'm his servant."

"He clearly sees you as more."

"I doubt that." She sighs. "He has been avoiding me."

To that, Malik laughs deeply, keeping his tone as low as possible in the library. "Still a coward at heart, it seems. Don't take it personally, Ambra, i'm sure he is working on something on his own. As should you - do tell me, are you sure you don't have a heart for him?"

She huffs, thinking. There is a certain feeling that makes her eager to wake up in the morning - whenever she sees Altaïr, the small gesture he gives, a touch of hand, a smile, or a simple moment shared with him, somehow makes her feel...at home. She finds his confidence to be attractive. The way he carries himself is different, as if he is a self-made man, built on skills and heightened senses. Then she recalls his gentle gestures, his habit of holding her close at night, the training he presses on to ensure she will raise to a new rank soon - are those his ways of showing affection?

"I...feel happy." She finally replies, looking at Malik, "he has been kind to me, and i'd like to repay him, to make him happy -" she recalls Altaïr's smile, how rare it is for him to show even a smile or a grin, yet once he does, the action lights up the room.

"And if he finds happiness without you, be it with someone else or somewhere else?"

As much as it hurts for her to imagine Altaïr sharing the same activity to another woman, Ambra swallows the lump in her throat. "I'm bound to him either way, Malik. I won't abandon him simply because he finds happiness without me."

With that answer, Malik smiles at her. His hand returns to pat her arm. "Then you have a heart for him. Why don't you two get married already and get busy."

"After you and Lina, of course." She grins, which earns a chuckle from him. Her hand moves to hold his hand gently, and he stops. "Thank you, Malik."

His next action is not expected by her, but she blushes nonetheless as he caresses her cheek once before dropping his hand to her arm. "You're welcome, sister."


	35. Chapter 35

By now, Ambra is certain she has broken Altaïr's trust.

It has been two weeks since her recovery, and still no change in Altaïr. His form of nightly discussion turns into a scolding of what she did wrong during the training. Then after it ends, he will tell her to sleep early, while he leaves the room. She has tried to stay awake once, and found him returning by midnight, with the smell of incense lingering on his tunics - did he use the meditation room again?

And in the morning, he would take his leave earlier than usual. Their direct contact will be in the training field, where he will press on her to the point of pain, not once speaking of anything but to give orders. It...pains her. She doubts the words of Malik, that Altaïr has a heart for her - this is not it. This is...less than that.

Then as if to punish her, he suddenly tells her not to visit the courtesans today.

"But why?" She finds herself protesting in the room as they are removing their effects.

"Must you doubt me?" His reply comes out bitterly.

"No - but, Altaïr -"

She stops as he raises an eyebrow at her. The dangerous air returns, and she immediately lowers her head, casting her eyes away from him. He leans against the wardrobe, "I remember a fifteen year old girl coming to train as an assassin, and she chose to stay with me, no matter how much i hated the idea. She was timid and she liked to please, mostly kept to herself, and so gullible. Yet now, i see a stubborn young woman, reckless, and hasty, dared to question me."

She stays silent. This brings back the memory of their big fight, and she would very much like to avoid that, seeing how close he can be to kill her.

He shoves a satchel at her, "Prepare sets of clothes, of yours and mine. We'll continue your training outside of Masyaf."

She accepts the satchel, confused, eyes raising to meet him. "May i ask where?"

"I can only tell you that you'd be training on how to kill in open space. We'll leave tonight." He replies, walking away from the wardrobe.

Her senses are alerted with the possibility of training in the open. What if this is one of his punishment, and that she will suffer from it? She quietly puts his and her clothes into the satchel, taking a few rags with her as well, thinking how she could use them as tourniquet. She would ask Altaïr more about this training, but he has assumed a meditation posture, and it will be unwise to poke the lion.

After dinner, they take their leave. A bit heavy at heart, Ambra glances at the fortress on their way to the stable. None of the brethren knows where they are heading tonight. This is scary, she finds herself thinking, and for once in all the years she knows Altaïr, she does not trust him.

Even more difficult to trust him when he orders her to ride on the same horse as him. Despite being in the close proximity as him, she finds herself unable to relax. His breathing is loud in her ear, as is his heart beat against her back. He leads the horse away from Masyaf, further and further into the night, and the longer they travel, the more anxious Ambra becomes. What does he want with me now?

The chilly night air is freezing to the bone. She pulls the kaftan tighter around her body, huffing a shuddering breath. Compares to her, Altaïr radiates warmth, and she is tempted to lean on him, a temptation that she immediately swats away. It will be unwise to provoke him on the horse - who knows what his reaction will be. She shivers on the saddle, feeling the jolt running down her spine.

Altaïr slows down the horse to a stop in the middle of nowhere, in the dark. "Cold?" He asks over her shoulder.

"Yes, i'm sorry." She adds quickly.

"Wear your kaftan the other way around." He replies.

The other way around - oh. Ambra leans forward on the horse to remove her kaftan, pulling out her arms from the sleeves, the pulling the material from under her. She returns to sit on the saddle carefully, as her bottom grazes the front of Altaïr's pants, and he hisses in warning as she sits. She brings her kaftan to her front, sliding into the sleeves, and lets the back of the kaftan shielding her front. It covers over her knees and over Altaïr's hands on the rein.

He flicks the rein and sends the horse running again.

Her anxiety grows as he leads the horse out of the road and into a dense pack of trees. She looks around, squinting, trying to make out where they are now. The trees are coming closer and closer, soon it gets a bit difficult for them to travel by horse. Yet Altaïr insists, until there is nothing but darkness around them.

They come to a stop. Ambra clenches her hands tightly, "Altaïr, where are we?"

"You'll see." He suddenly makes a move to climb down the horse, and it sends her panicking.

"Altaïr -"

"I'll be right back." He sounds distant, footsteps disappear almost immediately.

Oh no. She swallows her fear, eyes looking around to see her surrounding, however difficult it is. This is safe, she tries to tell herself. Her hand moves to pat the horse's neck, feeling how calm the animal is, despite surrounded by darkness. If it remains calm, then she should be as well, right? There is no threat here, right?

Nevertheless, being out in the open scares her, even more so when she cannot see what is in the darkness. She climbs down the horse, listening to the sound of crunched leaves under her boots. She leads the horse to one side, until she touches the bark of a tree. A big tree, judging from its size, and she presses her back against it. A part of her wants to climb up and perch up there, but another part prefers to be stay on the ground, closer to the horse, so she can ride it and get away quickly should danger arises.

"Altaïr?" She calls out into the dark.

No answer.

He did not just abandon me, right?

She decides to sit down on the ground, bringing the horse to sit as well. She leans against it, listening to its steady heartbeat and a soft breathing. What is Altaïr up to now? Where has he gone off to? What kind of training -

Footsteps approaching, and she flinches in response. She looks around to find an orange hue illuminating in the distance. When Altaïr's face comes into view, a torch in his hand, she is certain he is not going to be able to find her here, not when the horse is right in front of her. But she is taken aback, as he immediately turns towards her, as if he can see in the dark. "What are you doing here?" He asks sternly.

She immediately stands up, suddenly realizing perhaps Altaïr is inhuman, with such heightened senses. "N-nothing." She replies, looking at him.

He hums idly, "I found the cave. Come on."

It is easy for him to say so. Ambra walks beside him, while he is guiding the horse through the tall trees and thick branches. Many times, she accidentally trips on a root, but manages to catch herself before she falls face first onto the ground. Eventually Altaïr's lead results to a heap of rocks forming a cave.

There is so many things she would like to ask him, but he has lead the horse to the side of the cave, tying its rein on a branch. The horse neighs lowly before lowering itself to sit on the ground. Ambra is confused. The place is foreign and scary - "How did you find this place?"

Altaïr motions her to come into the cave, and she does, following the only source of light he carries. The inside of the cave is even creepier. It is not a big cave, but it gives out an air that a beast once lies here - she shudders, shaking off the thoughts of demons lurking in shadows. Altaïr drops the satchels on the ground, "I used the place to train your brethren when they were younger. You'll learn the true personality of a person in nature."

Right now, she is certain her personality is anxious.

"Roll out the blankets. I'll make the fire." He says, placing the torch between a gap in the rock walls, before heading out of the cave. How is he going to see in this dark? She wonders.

But that is enough wondering. Her hands grab the satchels to remove the blankets from inside. She spreads them out by the walls, deep inside the cave, where she feels much better to know there is nothing occupying the cave but her. She looks around the cave walls, examining the moss on the ceiling, and the hard ground under her boots.

Altaïr returns bringing a pile of branches in his arms, and he sets on making a campfire. "Altaïr," she approaches carefully, helping him piling small branches over larger ones.

"Hmm?"

"Are you mad at me?"

He glances at her briefly, "No."

Alright, that did not go anywhere...

"Are you alright?" She asks again.

"On what basis do you dare to assume so?" He returns the question venomously.

She pauses, "From Zahra's place, you seem distant. Did i do something wrong?"

He flicks the flints in his hands, creating sparks against the dry branches. "And what do you feel?"

"Confused," she shrugs, blowing softly on the sparks to light the fire. "But, with all respect, i feel scared."

He hums lowly, "Scared of me?"

"You're acting differently, and i don't understand why."

The fire is kindled, and it is burning nicely. "I told you to speak your mind and heart, did i not? If you've felt this way for that long, why don't you talk sooner?"

"Because i was afraid of your reaction." She mutters quietly, eyes watching the flame grows. "I haven't even thanked you or apologized for making you worried -"

She stops as suddenly Altaïr stands up, stretching, mouth letting out a groan. He looks at her, "By now, what else do you feel of my actions?"

He looks menacing like this, standing tall, hands on his hips, and eyes boring down on her. "I...feel pained." She replies honestly. "I thought for sure you're disgusted because i've been defiled by men other than you. If you are, it's your right, Altaïr." He says nothing, so she continues. "I'm sorry..."

He hums once, "Now how do you think i felt when you left without saying anything - then i found out you were tortured and defiled, barely alive, and starved." He walks away from her.

Is that what he feels? Is that why he gives such punishment? To get even with her? She would ask how long this punishment will last, but he has already lie down on his blanket, not even removing his boots. She feels even more confused now. Should she be the one to initiate the first move, or should she wait until he has calmed down?

"Sleep, Ambra." Altaïr mutters from his place.

"Yes, Altaïr."

She scurries to her blanket, somehow regretting for placing it beside Altaïr's. She lies down on her side, back facing him, finding solace in staring at the cave walls. At least he is not out to kill her, right? As much as she wants to return to the way they were before, she fears he will reject the notion, and it will only pain her even more.

She closes her eyes and forces herself to sleep, ignoring the calm breathing of the man behind her.

 

Altaïr wakes up feeling less refreshed than usual. This is the last day of Ambra's punishment, the one that he does not intended to tell to her. Apparently it works, she feels hurt, but also confused. The past two weeks have not been easy on him, having to avoid her altogether, and acting harsher than he intended to be. He thought she was going to break and cry, but no, she remained in her place, though tensed.

The doubt constantly returns to him. The doubt of what he feels to her. The four-letter words he does not think would exist. Why would he feel that now? Why her? Is this caused by their shared activity? Or simply because of the time spent together? He is contemplating whether he has to liberate her or not, so that he will not have to feel such confusion and burden, but to let her go entirely - can he actually do that?

She deserves someone better. Someone that treats her gently, that cares for her thoroughly, does not matter if she is an assassin or not. Someone that can make her happy and laugh, that does not cause her harm, that accepts her no matter what her status is. God - Altaïr grits his teeth upon feeling the tightening in his chest. What is the matter with me?

Ambra wakes up too early to his liking, and it sends him standing up, heading out of the cave. There is a river nearby, with cool, clear water flowing against the rocks. Focus, you idiot. He brings her here to train, not to talk about feelings. He splashes the water to his face, grunting against the morning air, feeling his grim mood despite the beautiful sunrise illuminating the lush green around him.

"Good morning." Ambra greets from behind him. She approaches the edge of the river, then crouches down to wet her face and to drink.

"Good morning." He replies curtly. "I'll have you know that we have no food."

She raises her eyebrows, surprised, "Then what should we do?"

"Hunt for one. It's time for you to learn the art of throwing knives." He takes one from his belt, flipping it with trained ease. His focus shifts and he scans the water, seeing the red hues of the fish swimming below. With precise aim, he throws the throwing knife to one nearby hues, effectively killing that one particular fish. It floats and he grabs it before it can go any futher.

Ambra is staring with wide eyes and slacked jaw, and he finds it amusing. "With all respect, Altaïr, i can't even catch a fish with my bare hands."

He stands up, bringing the fish with him. "You'll soon learn. Right now, let's eat."

The breakfast is not much, but it is better than nothing. He shares the fish with her, earning a grateful remark from her, as they eat the grilled fish from a leaf. Today's training will be difficult, he knows it. Throwing knives are not as easy to master as crossbow, but it comes in handy.

The first hour of training, he makes her throw pebbles to the same spot. It is hopeless - she never hits it twice in a row, and he grows impatient by it. Eventually, he stands beside her, "Focus, Ambra. Calculate your strength."

He throws one pebble, it hits the mark. Then another one, and it hits the same mark. The third and the fourth land in the same place as well.

"I'll try." She flings one pebble, and it lands outside the spot. Well, this is going to get tedious...

Upon the next hour, he hands her four throwing knives, "You hold it like this," he shows her, gripping the handle of the knife. "Then throw it like this." He flicks it towards a tree. The blade is stuck in the bark perfectly. He throws another one, and it lands just next to the first one.

The first knife she throws lands somewhere to the right of the targetted tree. The second one falls to the ground upon being thrown. The third one manages to hit the handle of his throwing knives on the tree, but not embedding itself there. The last one lands on the root of the tree.

She huffs, frustrated, "How long did it take for Tholeb, Hamzah, and Sofyan to master this?"

He points at her with a throwing knife, "Do not compare yourself to them."

When the sun is at its highest peak, and the heat is unbearable to train in, Ambra finally shows progress. The knives she throws are embedded to the tree, though vary in location, and not fully penetrating the bark. Altaïr watches her panting, sweating profusely under her tunics and effects. He himself has lowered his hood and taken a shelter under the shade of a tree, but without the breeze, the heat is still unbearable.

"That's enough." He stops her training. She looks at him appreciatively, hands lowering her hood. He manages to see sweat rolling down her forehead to her nose before being wiped by her hand. "Go and catch a fish if you can."

She groans audibly, "And if i fail?"

"Then we'll have no lunch. I can catch one on my own, but can you?" He raises an eyebrow at her, smirking.

He takes joy in watching her walk defeatedly to the riverside. The stream is calm and quiet. With the clear water, she should be able to see the fish clearly. Now to see how she would try to do that... He leans against the tree, watching her removing her boots, her effects follow. He chuckles upon seeing her method of removing her belt, by turning the hook to the front. She hears him, and glances at him, cheeks tinted in red hue.

She rolls her trousers up to her knees, as she does to her tunic up to her elbows. In one hand, she holds all three throwing knives, while the other hand holds one. This is going to be fascinating, he scoffs, watching her eyeing a fish that is swimming nearby. "Don't you dare lose the knives!" He adds quickly.

She groans again, "I'll try!"

He watches her entering the water until up to her knees. She keeps an eye on one particular fish. The first knife she throws misses, and it sends the fish away. Quickly, she grabs the sinking knife, then resumes the same posture. He approaches the riverside, now seeing how determined she looks to catch a fish. "It's a pity you missed."

"I know." She retorts grumpily.

He smirks as she throws another knife towards a nearby fish. She misses again. "When you catch one, it will be midnight." He comments.

She does not reply as she heads to grab the sinking knife. She throws another one almost impatiently, and again, it misses. She lets out a groan in annoyance, then heads to the dry ground. "With all respect, Altaïr, i can't catch the fish."

"I never said you should use the same technique as me." He scoffs.

She huffs, discarding the throwing knives on the ground. Her fingers undo her sash, and she casts it aside on her effects. Altaïr's smirk fades as he sees her removing her outer tunic, hands raised in the air, the damp inner tunic clinging to her frame. When the outer tunic is removed, and her hair is undone in the process, he forces himself to breathe normally. She ties up her hair quickly, messily, then taking the outer tunic into the water with her.

This is going to be amusing...

He chuckles at her method of catching fish. She is using her outer tunic as a makeshift net, both hands holding the sides, before jumping into the water towards the fish. He is surprised that she manages to catch one, a big one, but it slaps her across the face with its tail and it swims away. "No!" She exclaims desperately.

She stands up to resume the same position. Her clothes are wet, and she is dripping from top to toes. He silently enjoys the show, as she throws herself into deeper water, and struggles against a fish caught in her outer tunic. She wades through water, pulling against the fish's struggle, then she slams the fish onto dry ground forcefully. Two more slams, and the fish stops moving.

Ambra is panting, and she looks at Altaïr, "There!" She exclaims proudly, a smile forming on her lips.

He scoffs in response, "Graceless, but i applaud your determination."

The fish that she caught has made a mess of her outer tunic. Altaïr cannot contain his amusement as he overhears her muttering to herself by the riverside, cleaning her tunic from the scales and blood, while he is grilling the fish in the cave. He chuckles as she is mimicing the way he talks, "'I never said you should use the same technique as me', says the man with years of killing experience. By Allah, if he heard me, i'm done for..."

He is tempted to reply, but that will damn her into eternal embarassment. She enters the cave shortly, hands wringing water from her tunic. He glances at her, "How many pairs of clothing do you bring?"

"One." She shyly mutters. "I didn't expect us to camp in the forest, Altaïr."

"How many did you pack for me?"

"One. Sorry..." She replies quietly.

He hums deeply, "Go get changed. I'll get more firewoods."

He exits the cave before catching a glimpse of her removing her inner tunic. It is already bad that he has staved off his desire for her for weeks, he cannot make it worse by taking her right there and then. There are unresolved things they need to talk, and he doubts she will enjoy being taken by him after weeks building her fear for him.

He returns bringing more dry branches. Ambra has changed her clothes, now sitting by the fire to warm herself. She stands up upon seeing him and immediately comes to help. This reminds him of years ago, training Tholeb, Hamzah, and Sofyan. They were still novice back then. He suppresses a smile upon remembering how young they were, as he was as well, and he focuses on making bigger fire now.

He glances at Ambra. She looks indifferent. He is expecting her to crumble, to be traumatized by what the enemies have done to her. Yet here she remains, with a smile etched on her face, and ever so gentle gaze. He watches her eating half of the fish, smiling at her. The doubt in himself slowly fades away.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes life is not enough,  
> And the road gets tough, i don't know why.

The throwing knives training continues after lunch. Ambra grows annoyed by her lack of accuracy. She is left to train alone, while Altaïr is busy training on his own, slicing imaginary enemies with his dagger.

Her mind wanders constantly. He is warmer today, compared to the past two weeks that he admittedly ignored her as a form of punishment. She sighs heavily. Malik's words become unreal to her - there is no way in the world that Altaïr has a heart for her. It is just one of Malik's form of joke, making her feel uncomfortable, just for fun.

The rumble of thunder startles her, and she misses her throw. She looks up to the sky, there is no way it is going to rain, right? The sky is still bright in color, with no hints of cloud in the distance. She turns to Altaïr. He has stopped training, now sniffing the air, as if he can sense the change of weather.

"It's going to rain tonight." He informs, much to her surprise. "Do your training three times more, then we'll practice your dagger."

Great. Here she is having a hard time aiming, and soon her left shoulder is going to be stinging again. She forces herself to focus on her imaginary target, then continues training.

At least her hands are getting familiar with the motion. She huffs as the last of the throwing knife latches itself on the bark, missing the target, but at least it hits something. She moves to pluck the knives out and stores them in her belt. Altaïr is already waiting, hand flipping the dagger as if it is a toy. She moves to him.

"How's your left shoulder?" He asks, straightening himself from the tree.

She rolls her shoulder, feeling a bit tensed on the back, and the sharp sting comes biting. "A bit stinging."

"Your left arm is crucial, as it is where you wield the hidden blade. Use your left hand for now."

She inwardly groans, but unsheathing her dagger without further question. Altaïr has taken a stance by the riverside, and she follows. Her hand becomes sweaty soon, heart palpitating as she calculates what move he is going to give, and her eyes observe his expression. There is a sly smirk on his face as he lunges, making her having to deflect him.

She grunts as the clashing of their daggers send jolts to her shoulder. Before she can familiarize herself with the feeling, he attacks again, arm swinging dangerously. His reach is scary to her, seeing how easily he can nick her within an arm's reach.

Then comes her turn to attack. Mimicing his actions, she brings the dagger against him, swinging down to him. He parries easily - resulting in her grunting at the stinging pain in her shoulder. "Come now, Ambra, are you going to let such wound hinder you?" He scoffs.

She grunts again as she attacks, "This hurts, Altaïr."

Their daggers clash mid-air, "I know. But see it like this. I'm the enemy that has defiled you, and this is your chance to protect yourself."

She is tempted to reply, but he has pushed her away. Hastily, she regains her balance and starts attacking again. It soon becomes a battle of attacking and parrying.

When it comes to Altaïr's turn, he maintains a close distance between them, which scares her ever more. She moves backwards, deflecting his attack. He increases the speed, and soon she is avoiding more than parrying. He huffs, "Do not run away."

She jumps backwards as he brings the dagger down to her, and she narrowly evades it, with the price of slipping and falling into the river. She is certain he is going to stop - but no, his next attack comes to view. Raising her dagger to parry, the impact is absorbed by her shoulder painfully, and she rolls away from him. Her wet tunics and effects are the least of her concern now.

Altaïr has entered the water. He is frowning, eyes locking with her movement, like a beast preying on its victim. He attacks again, and she has a hard time to deflect. She brings her leg up to kick him on the stomach, which somehow only earns a chuckle from him. He lunges at her, splashing water everywhere as he lands. She gasps as she brings her dagger up to him, intending to deflect him. But the impact is too much for her to handle, and he easily breaks through her defense.

Her last resort rests on tackling him down. She lunges at him, a hand wraps around his waist, then with all strength, she pushes him back. He is taken aback as he falls backwards. She grunts as she lands on top of him. Quickly, she rolls away from him, finding that he is even scarier to fight in close distance.

He grabs her ankle before she can roll further. She turns to look at him, finding him drenched and thoroughly amused by her action. He pulls her to him. She gasps at the strength he is using, another hand of his has gripped on her other ankle to pull, and she is only propped up by her own hands in the water.

She turns to splash water to his face. The action catches him by surprise, as he coughs in response. Good. She kicks against his chest, but he has other plan.

Somewhere she has dropped her dagger, and it glistens under water. She reaches out to grab it before Altaïr can pull her to him. When her hand grabs around the handle, she lets herself be pulled by him. He flips her to him, pushing her to the rocky bottom of the river. She relents, only to bring the dagger to his throat, pressing the blade close to his neck. He pauses altogether, panting.

"I didn't expect that." He pants.

She is having a hard time to breathe normally. In this lying position, the water reaches up to her jawline. He could push her down and drown her. "Did i win?" She asks.

"No."

Ambra watches Altaïr's smirk grows as he taps his left hand to her stomach. The hidden blade is unsheathed, now tapping warningly against her belt. He flashes a grin at her.

"I'll give you three seconds to make your next move." He warns.

She panics now. Her right hand grabs his left wrist in attempt to push him away. He simply scoffs, right hand parries her dagger forcefully. She drops the dagger to the water, but quickly unsheathes her hidden blade, pressing the tip to the side of his neck. Her right hand is still pushing against his left hand, hoping to create a distance between her and his hidden blade.

"Do you trust me?" He pants.

Does she? She looks at him. The dark hair that has grown a bit longer, the golden orbs under the arching eyebrows, the scar that is tugged by his snarl. Body language gesturing the opposite of friendly. Should she trust him?

What is she thinking? If he wants her killed, he could have done so earlier.

"Yes." She replies.

Altaïr grabs her left wrist with his right hand, then suddenly pushes forward, pinning her into the bottom of the river. She inhales deeply before being submerged. What is he up to now?

Under the calm water, her hearing is muffled, but she hears her own heartbeat clearly. Looming above her is Altaïr, eyes watching her, unmoving. Her lungs begin to burn from holding her panting breath, but she tries to remain calm, eyes opening to focus on him. She tries to move her left hand that he pins underwater, but he does not budge.

Bubble of air starts to escape her mouth, and she makes a move to raise her head above water. But he holds her still. Her eyes widen - he is not going to drown me, is he? She taps his left arm that holds her abdomen down, warning him that she cannot hold this much longer, but it does not earn a reaction from her. She moves her right hand above water, trying to grab hold of his neck. Yet he simply takes it and pins it down to her abdomen again.

Trust him... She tastes fresh water, trying to keep calm, however difficult it is. She lets herself relax. The energy to fight leaves her from the fingertips and her toes, and she can feel it moving towards her heart, feeling it beats slower as time passes. If he wishes her to die by his hands, why not? Her emerald greens focus on his golden ones, feeling her view becomes a bit hazy -

She does not expect him to lean forward to her. When his mouth captures hers, exhaling air into her mouth, she feels the tingling sensation in her fingertips. The need to live. The overwhelming sensation that causes her heart to beat rapidly in her chest. His lips move on their own, and she replies, briefly, as he has risen above water again. How...profound...

She keeps the air he has given in her mouth, swallowing it as much as she can. Eventually, it proves to be not enough, but thankfully, he has ceased the torture. He pulls her from the water, and she inhales as much air as she can, feeling the lungs burning from the action.

"Breathe, Ambra." He mutters against her ear, as he holds her close, sitting over his thighs.

She coughs out water. Both hands grabbing the front of his tunic tightly, as he wraps his around her waist and back. She rests her head on his shoulder, trying to regulate her breathing, feeling his own heartbeat against her hand.

He holds her still for what seems like eternity. With the sound of the flowing water filling the silence, and the surface reflecting the sunrays. The lush green leaves are tinted in fiery hue, the sun is setting it seems, and - and she can feel his warmth and heartbeat, and his breathing, and his hand caressing the back of her head, and his lips idly kissing the side of her head - and her heart is aching - and this is beautiful and perfect - and she is certain she has died again. Because this is the best she ever feels.

She pulls her head to look at him, and she finds the conflicted emotion in his eyes, having drowned her and saving her. "Altaïr..." She calls, hands moving up to hold the sides of his face, feeling the stubble he fashions.

And she casts away her status, her fear, and her anxiety over him, as she leans forward and captures his lips with her own. The softest touch and the simplest action. She feels him kissing her back - and she moves closer to straddle him, pressing herself against him, to feel him thoroughly. He appreciates the gesture, hands pressing her to him almost forcefully, and lips kissing her hungrily.

Her tongue delves into his mouth, and he is surprised by the action. Her skill in lovemaking may not be as experienced as him, but she has learned from their shared activities in his room. His hand moves to hold the base of her hair, tilting her head to one side, and his tongue battles for dominance, pushing her own back into her mouth.

She runs her fingers through the back of his head, kneading gently on his favored spot, tugging his soft hair. He grunts deeply, pulling her closer, if it is anymore possible. Their shared kiss soon turns heated, with her nipping on his lips, and his hands kneading almost painfully against her back. He trails his kisses to her neck, biting and sucking above the collarline, and she gasps at the feeling.

The first few drops of rain fall upon them, and Ambra raises her gaze to the sky, to admire the amber colored clouds and the raindrops that grace them, while Altaïr nips on the skin of her neck thoroughly, making marks upon marks possessively. She grinds her hips against his, earning a sigh from him, much to her own pleasure. His hand moves to cup her breast from over the tunic, and she arches in response, feeling her nipple rises. She breathes out a moan as he pulls her in for another kiss.

"The cave, now." He mutters between kisses. As much as they would like to continue here, the rain and the place is not suitable for intimacy. She slides off of his lap, quickly grabbing her discarded dagger from the bottom of the river, as he does the same. The rain grows heavier, wetting the leaves, leaving a wonderful smell in the air. Altaïr ushers her into the cave, away from the falling drops.

For a while, he embraces her from the back, as she tries to memorize the scenery, the feeling, the smell - she feels him kissing the side of her head again, and she melts into his embrace. And she lets herself enjoy the moment, taking in every bit of affection he offers, whatever it means to him. She proudly admits to herself that she has fallen for this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The road is long to carry on,  
> Try to have fun in the meantime.


	37. Chapter 37

Altaïr does not know what Ambra is thinking right now, but if he knows something, this is reality. He turns Ambra in his embrace, so that she faces him, and she gladly does so. The emerald green of her eyes are boring into his. The cheeks are forever tinted in red hue, and her golden hue - the one he favors - is shining brightly. He leans down to capture her lips again, gentle this time, despite the hunger he feels over her.

His hand moves to unhook her belt, and she discards it somewhere, thudding against the ground. They share a laughter as they try to keep their lips together while removing their effects. He casts his armbraces either way, his belt follows, thudding heavily around his feet before he kicks it away. He unclips his holster, pulling back from the kiss to remove it over his head, then throws it aside. She is having difficulty with her left armbrace, "What are you going to do without me?" He chuckles, pulling her in for a deeper kiss, while his hand helps her removing the offending effect.

He discards their hoods swiftly. Moving backwards, he brings her closer, hands fiddling with her sash, surprised to find hers doing the same to him. He manages to pull her sash away, while she lets his drop to the ground. Her hands are clawing against his outer tunic, pulling against the hem upwards, desperately. The wet fabrics are clinging to his skin, making it difficult to remove, and she gives up.

He is surprised as she kneels down, face lines up with his hardened manhood. He feels her hands undoing the straps of his boots - oh, he laughs at himself. He will be utterly shocked if she knows anything about kissing a man's genitalia. His boots are removed in time, and she moves her hand to remove her own. Then his breath gets caught in his throat as she runs her other hand over the front of his trousers.

"Ambra -" he hisses as she trails her fingers to the outline of his manhood. If he is not hard before, he is even harder now. He catches her hand, intending her to stop, however pleasureable this is. She complies, but then she presses her lips against the straining head of his manhood, and he chokes back a response.

Her boots are discarded behind her. She crawls closer to him, literally pressing her nose against his manhood. Her eyes flick upwards to meet his - and she looks sultry, yet gentle, yet hungry - and he swallows thickly, letting go of her hand.

He lets her have her share of taking control, while he removes his tunics swiftly. The wet materials plop on the ground. He looks down to find her untying the knot of his trousers, then carefully slides the trousers down slightly, until his manhood springs free. She jumps as it nearly smacks her face. "Don't force yourself now." He warns, seeing how red she has become.

"I'm not forcing myself." She replies honestly. Her fingers caresses the base of his manhood, sending shudders throughout his body. She looks at him again, biting her lower lip out of nervousness. "Please tell me if i do something wrong."

When she wraps her hand around his manhood, he sighs blissfully. Her palm is warm. She moves her hand towards the head, where her thumb caresses the slit of his manhood, forefinger circling around the head. He huffs once, a hand caressing the top of her head, while his other hand runs through his own hair. She is eyeing his reaction, pupils dilated, her breath is slightly ragged against his manhood.

When she plants a kiss on the tip of his manhood, he groans lowly.

 

Ambra feels nervous, but excited nonetheless. She inhales the smell of Altaïr's manhood, how strong it is, and a bit salty. It is warm and hard, but also soft - and there is so many veins. She trails each one of them, occasionally glancing up to him, in case she has done something wrong. But he is giving her the look of pure lust. If she relents, he might take her right now.

She caresses the swollen tip of his manhood, finding clear liquid staining her finger. Curiously, she kisses the tip again, tongue darting out to taste him - and she yelps as his fingers thread painfully in her hair.

"Sorry -" Altaïr mutters quickly, caressing her scalp apologetically.

She swallows whatever liquid that she tastes. It is salty and a bit sour. She moves her other hand to the base, now curious of the sacks hanging between his thighs. He catches her hand before she can move them further.

"Not there." He says.

Very well, then onto the next thing... She inhales deeply. Now that she knows what he smells like, she wonders what he tastes like.

Altaïr lets out a low groan as she licks the underside of his swollen head. Tongue moving to his slit, tasting more salty liquid, before opening her mouth to take him inside. He huffs loudly, "Ambra..."

She beams up at the way he reacts. She opens her mouth wider, taking him as far as she can, being careful not to accidentally bite him in the process. But with the size of him, it is difficult to take much. She only manages to wrap her mouth around the tip, now swallowing her excess saliva.

Whatever it is that she does apparently feels good to him, because he groans lowly again, chest huffing. And when she looks up at him, he is flushed, red painted his cheeks. "Are you done?" He asks.

Just one more, she gestures to him.

When she sucks her saliva that is coating his head, he throws his head backwards, groaning again. "God! Ambra - that's enough!" He exclaims.

She is tempted to stop, instead, she repeats the motion again. He grips the back of her head tightly and pulls, and she is forced to let him go with a 'pop'. She looks up at him, huffing. He glares down at her, fingers wiping off the saliva on the side of her mouth.

"Who taught you that?" He pulls her up by the upper arm.

"No one - i swear." She replies honestly.

His lips assault hers with much needed force, rendering her whimpering, clawing against his chest. He bites her bottom lip until she yelps, "Curious, hmm?" She shudders as he cups her bottom, then kneads a bit harsher than expected. "What else are you curious about, i wonder..."

When his hand sneaks under her tunic, she freezes, feeling his fingers trailing the scars.

 

Altaïr senses her hesitation, and he stops. "If you wish to stop, tell me." He mutters over her lips. Her scarred skin feels both rough and smooth against his fingertips. He wonders what they look like now.

Ambra blinks repeatedly, "You're not disgusted?"

He scoffs, "I have scars, and you don't mind."

He trails his hand upwards, and she gasps - ah, i see - he feels a larger and longer scar on her back. "A-Altaïr, wait -" she gasps again, pulling herself away from him.

He lowers his hand, but keeping her close to him. A hand moves to cup her chin and tilts her face upwards, "Look at me," he says, golden orbs locking with her emerald ones, "do you think i will desire you less?"

She hums as he leans down to kiss her. Her bottom lip is trembling when they part, "I thought you avoided me for that..."

If only you knew... He plants a kiss on her forehead. "Prepare yourself. I'll make more fire." He pulls his trousers up and over his manhood, then lets her go.

He heads to the almost dying campfire to feed more branches to it. The wind and rain outside the cave have picked up, now creating quite a noise. The sun has fully set, and darkness begins to envelop the place. The campfire quickly fixes the darkened situation, now illuminating the cave with bright orange hue. Altaïr brings a fiery branch towards an extinguished torch that he placed the night before on the cave wall, adding more light to the interior.

He sees Ambra removing her trousers, kicking the material aside. There are thin scars over her thighs and knees, drawn in idle patterns. He heads to grab his belt, opening the pouch to take out a jar of cedar oil, earning a chuckle from her. "You are prepared." She comments, now standing in her inner tunic.

He approaches her, smirking on one side of his face, "I'm always prepared." She moves backwards until her feet rests on the blanket, and he follows. There is still hesitation in her eyes, despite her cheeks burning red, and the clear smell of arousal coming from her. He raises his hand to her, and she instinctively grabs it, fingers caressing his stub as expected.

"Tell you what," he starts, "take control for this time. I will guide you."

She raises her eyebrows, confused, "How?"

He presses his lips against her palm, then trails his kisses lower to her wrist, where she jumps at the sudden action. "Just pretend to be me. What do i usually do to you?"

She lets out a squeak - how intriguing - and he finds her cheeks become redder. She is definitely remembering their activities together, and the idea to pretend to be him must have embarassed her. She is submissive, willingly accepting whatever he gives to her, and reacting honestly to his actions. While he prefers to dominate, to control her reaction, to earn her satisfaction rather than being given to. It will be difficult for her to begin -

Or not.

He freezes as she suddenly drags himself to her for a kiss. She keeps one hand behind his head, and the other trailing down his chest, down to his abdomen, and to hold against the edge of his trousers. He simply keeps his hands behind her back. Their lips are moving against each other. Their panting fills the space between them.

She parts only to whisper lowly, "Lie down here, please." She adds quickly.

He smirks in response, then mimics her way of talking. "Yes, Ambra."

Against the gentle smack she gives on his shoulder, he lies down onto the blanket. She is very red right now, huffing, shuddering, as she stradles him. She leans forward, hovering over him, arms propping herself around his head. He feels her wet tunic presses against his chest. "Altaïr," she calls, biting her lower lip. "Is it possible for me to be on top?"

He pecks a kiss to her jaw, "Very much so, yes."

 

Well, that clears it off.

Ambra tries to channel the air that Altaïr carries, but even with the man himself pretending to be docile, she cannot do it. She looks at him, finding a glint of playfulness in his eyes, and the smirk tugging the scar across his lips. He is enjoying this...

Against her embarassment, she leans down to kiss him again. The new position feels different to her, as she can control how gentle should the kiss be, or how harsh it should be. Her lips nip at his scar, then she slowly turns her head the other way, still kissing him gently. Her hand moves to hold the back of his head, giving a sharp tug, earning a growl of warning from him. How come he favors this particular spot so much, she has no idea.

Her tongue delves into his mouth, this time she remembers to swallow excess saliva, like he told her to. She wishes to explore his mouth more, but his tongue is not having it, pressing back against her own. Her other hand moves to his chest, palm grazing his nipple, and she keeps going down to his abdomen, scratching lightly. She flinches as he brings his hands under her tunic to cup her bottom, kneading lightly, but it sends sparks to her brain.

The growing manhood in front of his trousers is straining now, poking her inner thigh every time she squirms lightly. She nips harder on his lips, biting his bottom lip when he raises his head in attempt to dominate her again, "Hush." She mutters softly, pushing him back to lie down.

He chuckles, "Did i do that?"

She only hums in approval, lips trailing to kiss his jaw, feeling the rough stubble. When she reaches his ear, he bucks sharply into her, almost toppling her to the front. She grips onto the back of his head again, one hand keeping her balance on his chest. She opens her mouth to nibble on his ear - and she swears she hears him growling lowly.

He lets out a sigh when her tongue swipes idly over the shell of his ear. His hands are pushing her bottom down to his clothed manhood, rocking her slowly, rubbing her bare womanhood against the wet trousers. "How impatient," she comments hushly, trailing her lips down to his neck, where she bites him.

She feels Altaïr fumbling with the knot of his trousers, and she raises her hips away from him, but still keeping her mouth latching onto his neck. She tries to make a mark there, kissing and sucking the pulse point until he grunts, breathily. The tip of his manhood hits her inner thigh.

"I thought i'm the one in control?" She nips lowly to his collarbone. The mark she makes on his neck is successful, dark purple in color.

He huffs, hands moving to encase her back in his arms, "I'm beginning to regret giving you control."

She chuckles, failing the next mark she is making. She runs her tongue from his collarbone to his neck, then to his ear again, before raising her head to look at him. How dilated his pupils are. His hair is a mess, and his lips are pink from their kissing session. "You're impatient." She leans down to kiss him, harder this time - and she feels him bucking up to her. The tip of his manhood dangerously caresses her outer lip.

She feels his hand moves between them, fingers caressing her womanhood. He growls when he finds her opening, wet and warm. "You're more than ready," he mutters before delving two fingers into her.

"Altaïr - not fair -" she protests, trying to lift her hips as far as she can, away from his penetrating fingers. But he keeps her hips down with his other hand. She can feel the thickness of his digits, the roughness of the heel of his palm against her hardening nub - she tries to focus somewhere else, to not moan yet for him.

He catches her intention, curling his finger inside her, then slyly moving the heel of his palm against her nub. "Make a sound, Ambra."

She shakes her head, "Not while you're being unfair -"

But her mouth betrays her as he presses his palm rougher against her nub, fingers drumming her walls, parting her opening. She throws her head back at the sensation, huffing her moan. He chuckles deeply, "What was that again?"

She bucks against his hand, "Altaïr -" she pushes against his chest, moving to sit up, but he is having none of it. It is difficult to persuade him once he is determined on something. She thinks of something else, hips grinding against his fingers. "Let me - ah - let me remove my tunic. Please..."

He slows down to a stop, contemplating the idea. Eventually, he relents, fingers removed from her womanhood. "Very well."

She sits up successfully now. The view from above him is beautiful, with him huffing impatiently, and the mark she has left on his neck, and the taut muscle of his abdomen and chest - she licks her lips unconsciously. Her hands make a move to remove her tunic. Here it goes... She hopes the state that she is in does not disgust him.

 

The numerous new scars on Ambra's skin are inviting to look at. Altaïr casts his eyes to her chest, where the center bears longer and larger scars, and the abdomen, where there is an idle pattern drawn there by a blade. She discards her tunic to the ground.

Altaïr runs his hands up her hips to her waist, thumbs caressing the scars, until he reaches her breasts, where he cups her gently. He sits up, closing the distance between them, "There's nothing wrong with you."

She squirms in his lap as he runs his hands to her back, to feel the larger scars. It feels smoother than her already smooth skin, and he takes joy in following the pattern, eyes looking at her reaction. She runs her hands over his chest, "Are you not disgusted?"

"Do you take me to be so superficial?" He chuckles, lips kissing her shoulder and neck. "If i want someone flawless, i'd bed the courtesans. But i want you."

He hears her breath hitches upon the remark, but he pays no mind. He kisses her deeply, enjoying the response she gives, the humming she emits. She grinds herself against his manhood, how tempting it is to slide into her right now. But she pushes him to lie down again.

He grounds his heels to the blanket and lifts his hips as far as he can, removing the wet trousers that have stained the blanket. Ambra raises her hips almost in unison. She parts from him to slide down his legs, hands tugging against his trousers, helping him remove it. "Don't you dare tease me." He warns as she is eyeing his manhood with a glint in her eyes.

"Not in a million years." She moves up until her face lines up with his manhood again, damp hair dropping droplets of water on his thighs, only now she is frowning in confusion. "Where's the cedar oil?"

Altaïr looks around, finding the wooden jar resting by his head - how did it get here? He grabs the container, at the same time as he feels warmness and wetness on his manhood - he jerks up involuntarily, surprised, mouth letting out a grunt. Don't tell me -

Ambra has latched her mouth around his manhood again, deeper this time, passing the tip. The view of her lips around him sends jolts down his spine. How carnal she seems, how wild. He can feel her tongue tracing the underside of his manhood, and her teeth barely grazing him, and how warm she is to him. He caresses her head, and she looks up to him, "Who's insatiable now?" He purrs.

Somehow he regrets saying it, as she sucks tightly, then slides off of his manhood oh so slowly. When she lingers around the sensitive head, he lets out a choked gasp, earning a surprised look from her.

"Don't get used to it -" he hisses as she slides back in, saliva coating him. She raises her head again, sucking again, tongue swirling around the head. He huffs violently, "Ambra -" but she repeats the motion again, and this time, she hums acknowledgingly at his silent request. The action sends him shuddering, mouth heaving a low moaning. "Ambra - last chance - or i'll take you without -" he grunts lowly as she sucks around the head again, "without - without the cedar oil -" his eyes narrow at the look she is giving him. How utterly gentle and sultry.

She lets him go, finally, grinning as if she has won something. "I don't think you'll do that." She giggles. He hands her the cedar oil, and she makes quick move on opening it, smearing a generous amount on the head of his manhood.

"What?" He hisses as she wraps her hand around his manhood, accidentally pumping him, as she tries to smear the cedar oil thoroughly. He tries not to buck against her hold.

"Taking me without cedar oil. We'll end up with little Altaïr." She laughs again.

He nearly bucks against her hand as she pumps upwards. Thankfully she has stopped the indirect torture, now wiping the excess oil to her womanhood. He grabs her upper arms after she has finished, pulling her closer, until his manhood lines up with her womanhood. He plants a kiss by her ear, hands moving to thread with her hair, while her own instinctively brace on his chest, smearing cedar oil to his skin.

The thought of her being pregnant with his own for once does not send a cautious reminder to him. If anything, he finds himself imagining her, nursing a baby from him. Will it be a female or a male? Will it have her eyes or his? Will it be like him or her? And he nearly loses himself at the imagination of holding her at night, rubbing her pregnant belly, peppering kisses to her shoulder against her gentle protest not to wake the baby up.

He inhales deeply into reality, "I don't mind." He kisses her throat gently. "In the future, i hope."

She feels feverish, and he takes it she is blushing again. He nudges her opening with the tip of his manhood. She suddenly takes his hand, stopping him, face pulling away from his shoulder. The blush adorns her cheeks quite permanently by now. "I accept your offer, but Altaïr, relax for now. Please."

He finds her attempt to politely order him to be amusing. He kisses her once before complying, "Whatever you want, Ambra."

 

Ambra finds her heart fluttering from the offer Altaïr proposed. This is good, right? In the future when they have found the rhythm for each other, they may as well have an offspring together. She links her hands with his, feeling the rough palms and the intense warmth, eyes not leaving his. Will the baby be as strong as him? Be as honorable as him? His lips tug into a smile, and she moves her hips down, womanhood caressing his manhood, until his tip finds her opening.

Her moan is loud and uninterrupted as she sinks down to him. She clenches his hands tightly. He stretches her to the point of pain, and it scares her, reminding her of the enemies that impaled themselves into her. She unconsciously shakes her head, gasping her moan, still sinking into him.

His thumbs are caressing her hands, "You're doing great, Ambra."

Am i? She closes her eyes as she slides down thoroughly, only to moan again as the tip of his curved manhood caresses that particular spot inside her. When her hips finally rest against his own, she clenches involuntarily, feeling so full and losing control. She gasps his name, "Altaïr - i can't..."

He grits his teeth, "Can't what?"

She tries to raise her hips up, slowly, only to slide down to him again. The sound she makes is not like any other sound she ever made, and it embarasses her, however many times she has vocalized her pleasure in front of him. She looks at him, hazy eyed, and trembling lips. "It feels good..." She whispers.

The corner of his scarred lips tugs into a smirk, "I know. Let me guide you."

He places her hands on his chest, then she feels his hands move to her hips, holding her there. She brushes her hair aside so she can look at him better. He gives a nod, and gently, he raises her hips up. She groans throughout the motion, feeling his manhood leaving her empty, but he soon brings her down again, slowly, and she hisses. "Altaïr!"

"That's it." He mutters breathily.

She raises her hips involuntarily, huffing. When she impales herself down to him, she yelps, finding him bucking upwards to greet her. He helps her raising her hips and lowering her again, a bit faster this time. She leans backwards, resting against his thighs, hands combing through her own hair, and she swears she hears Altaïr curses deeply.

"Ambra..." He calls, eyes glancing between their joined bodies to her face, eventually to her bouncing breasts. He helps her move, but she pushes herself to do more, until she is bouncing on his lap. Greedily taking in the sensation of him inside her, the grips he gives to her hips, the ragged breathing of his. This position makes her feel powerful, and she moans loudly, finally, giving out on controlling herself.

When she feels familiar with the motion, she takes his hands again, balancing herself on his palms, as her hips move on their own. He sighs, a mixture with his growling. Then she changes the motion, grinding forward and backward on his manhood, rubbing her hardened nub on his pubic bone. The sensation is too much to take. Soon her thighs are trembling. But she wants more.

Altaïr is muttering praising to her every now and then, and it feeds her confidence. "You're beautiful -" he hisses when she clenches down, the hiss that turns into a breathy sigh, and it only makes her wanting him more.

He removes his hand from her to trail the thumb down to her nub. She leans backwards, letting him have his share of control, now moving up and down on his manhood. She yelps as he circles the nub quickly, pace unfaltering - "I'm close -" she sighs.

"Let it out now." He encourages. The thumb keeps its pace, and so does she. She feels the knot on the edge of the breaking. The tightening in her stomach is almost painful. He bucks upwards when she glides down - she looks at him, sighing blissfully, how beautiful he looks, and how lucky she is -

Her voice becomes uncontrollable as she breaks. High-pitched and enchoing in the cave, some muffled by the rain, some mixing with his encouraging grunt. She slows down her pace, feeling too overwhelmed to keep it on, and he removes his hand from under her. She does not think twice as she leans forward and kisses him, tasting him, as her womanhood is spasming on its own. And he takes turn to take control now.

 

Altaïr rolls her to the side, then to her back. She complies, almost boneless, with hair fanning out above her. He tilts her hips upwards to meet his thrust, a few slow ones, and those are enough to make her whimper.

She kneads the back of his head, and down to his shoulders, fingertips sending shudders throughout his body. He kisses her deeply, a hand caressing her abandoned breast, earning a low moaning from her. After her turn earlier, he feels so close to his pleasure. Yet ever so greedy, he needs to make her break more. He wants more of her.

He catches her hands and pins them down by the sides of her head. She grins - facial expression soon turns into bliss as he pounds harder. She turns her head to the side, kissing the tip of his thumb, and he chuckles.

"Tease." He huffs against her neck, kissing and licking on where he intends to mark her.

"It's hard not to." She moans as he rolls his hips, all while sucking a new mark on her neck. He can feel her nipples grazing his chest. How painfully erect they are. She darts out her tongue to lick his thumb.

He hums in approval, "How wicked, Ambra. Do you miss me that much?"

She whimpers as he fastens his pace slightly. "I do -" she gasps before adding, shyly, "s-sorry."

He lets her hands go, now hovering over her lips to look at her expression. The shyness washes over her, reminding him of their first time, when she blushed thoroughly. He feels her caressing his jaw, then to his neck, fingernails grazing lightly there.

This is something new, he finds himself thinking, looking into her eyes intently. He feels his burden being lifted from his shoulders. All doubts and responsibility are casted aside. This is more than enough for him. Since when does he long for her presence? To hold her in his arms, to keep her close, to own her wholly? His heart is beating wildly as she gasps her name, hips unconsciously moves faster.

She needs to hold him close, and so he complies, leaning down to let her wrap her arms around his neck. He inhales the smell of her hair. One hand holding the back of her head, while the other keeps himself from crushing her with his weight. He feels her opening herself further for his ease, knees almost touching the sides of his chest, and he imagines she feels full by now.

He presses a kiss to her ear, "Ambra..."

She lets out a long moan, walls clenching onto him tightly, a hint that she is getting close.

"Ambra," he calls again.

"Yes?" Her answer comes in choked reply.

He nuzzles the side of her face, listening to her breathy moan against his ear. He grips tightly on the back of her head. "Won't you be mine?"

She turns to peck a kiss to his cheek, "I'm already yours - Altaïr -"

But the answer does not satisfy him, and though he knows this is hardly a suitable moment to talk seriously, he cannot think of any better moment. "Ambra, i want you." He growls in her ear. "I need...to have you. All of you -" he hears her gasping, and he hisses as she holds him tighter. "Be mine, Ambra."

It sounds more like an order than a gentle request, but he is never one for small talks or a heart-to-heart. He presses a kiss down to her ear, silently cursing his own way of confessing, all while thinking how that does not change a thing.

"Altaïr," she swallows thickly, pulling against his hair to look at his face. He complies, looking at her deeply, registering the blush and the teary eyes - did i cause that? "Altaïr, i'm yours." She manages between moaning. "Are you - mine?"

He chuckles at her abrupt question, leaning down to her, "Yes, of course, i'm yours."

When they kiss, he finds a new sensation spreading throughout their joined bodies. She returns the kisses passionately, whimpering now and then. He finds her lack of restraint to be fulfilling, desiring, how wonderful it is to finally hear her voice again. His hips move faster and faster, rolling now and then to send her over the edge - to earn her pleasure.

She breaks with a new energy, and he finds his release shortly. His seed staining her walls completely, feeling her spasming, heartbeat loud against his chest. The kiss grows sloppily, and she is the first to pull away, whimpering at the aftermath of their lovemaking.

He drops his forehead to her, trying to regulate his breathing. "Mine." He softly says.

"Yours." So she replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A trivia!
> 
> Based on the book by Avicena (Ibn Sina), one of the contraceptive method is by smearing cedar oil to the head of the manhood. Another method is by placing mint inside the womanhood before intercourse.
> 
> Bless be modern age.


	38. Chapter 38

This feels more like a leisure time than a training. Ambra thinks, as she lies awake on the blanket. The chilly morning air enters the cave. She will be shivering if not for Altaïr wrapping his arms around her tightly. His head rests on her breasts, crushing her with his weight, but she does not bother to protest. He looks peaceful like this. Herself, finally, feels glad that they are moving forward again.

She strokes his hair lightly, been doing so since she wakes up earlier. He has pulled up another blanket sometime at night, and used it to cover half of his body and hers.

This is not a dream, right? She will be thoroughly broken if this is one. After their small talk during the activity, it still feels like a dream to her, that he returns her feelings. Stuff like that does not just happen out of nowhere. If she knows wisdom, everything comes with a price, and she begins to wonder what price this will take.

Her mind drifts to her goal. How far she has strayed from it. She is supposed to focus on killing Jaqq and liberating her friends, not to fall in love with her new master - now lover, she turns giddy by the new status - and certainly not to lie here naked with him, far away from Masyaf, where she should be training. She wonders if she has made a mistake by not having self-control.

But the light snoring and soft breathing of Altaïr take her back to reality, and she finds herself holding onto him tighter. She does not want to lose him too. Sighing, she imagines what life will be after her goal is accomplished. She is thinking to stay with Altaïr, to follow him wherever he takes her - after all, where else would she go?

Then her mind begins to wonder of the inevitable. What if this is only temporary? What if in a few years or so, he has grown tired of her, and liberated her, or worse, be married to someone else? Oh curse it, Ambra, she silences her thoughts. He is still her master either way. If he wishes to marry someone else, then... What did he always say?

Focus on the progress, not the result?

She pecks a kiss to his temple, feeling him stirring a bit. Whatever their ending may be, this should not be taken for granted. Enjoy the moment, make beautiful memories, memorize him, while she still can.

Altaïr wakes up with a hum, nose nuzzling her breast. His heavy hand moves to knead the other one. Warm, almost hot palm, grazing her nipple gently. Ambra chuckles, "Good morning, Altaïr."

He tilts his head up to meet her gaze. The golden orbs are blinking slowly, "Good morning."

She squeals as he kisses above her breast, while his hand kneads a bit harder. Her protest dies down as his other hand trails up and down her side, knowing so well she is ticklish there, and it results in her breathy laughter. "Altaïr, it's morning."

He hums idly, "I know."

This man, seriously - Ambra squirms as he latches his mouth to her nipple, sucking the bud, rolling it with his tongue. Her breath soon turns into small fit of moaning, hips bucking up in response, earning an appreciative hum from him. "What about the training?" She manages. Her body tenses as his hand moves lower to between their bodies, finding her womanhood. "Altaïr -"

"This is a training," he releases her nipple, now looking up with hooded eyelids at her, fingers massaging her nub. "An endurance training, to be precise."

She swallows her reply as his finger enters her, rendering her throwing her head back, groaning lowly. This is certainly new. And she finds it hard to believe this is real, this is happening - that Altaïr is assaulting her neck again, adding another finger to move inside her, and he soon moves to her ear, muttering her name softly, gently - that alone nearly sends her over the edge. His insatiable nature and sinister chuckle as she pleads for him to slow down - by Heaven, she swallows, this man is going to be the death of me...

The real chore begins at noon, that is after Altaïr complains of being hungry, and Ambra nearly falls asleep again after another round of shared activity. Their discarded clothes from last night are scattered around the cave, dirty and wet, leaving them with only Altaïr's clean clothes.

Now here she is, dressed in his inner tunic, with sleeves rolled to her elbows, crouching by the riverside to wash their clothes. While Altaïr, dressed only in his trousers, is tending the horse. At least it finds shelter under the shade of trees from the rain last night. Altaïr is patting its head apologetically, muttering something soothingly to its neck.

Ambra cannot contain her smile. After hanging the clothes and their effects to dry, they are sharing a meal - freshly caught and grilled fish - all while Altaïr talks about how her brethren survived the training here. How Sofyan slipped off a tree and was caught by Tholeb around the ankle. How Hamzah managed to kill a fish with the throwing knife technique, then pretended to miss so he could catch some for Sofyan and Tholeb as well, only to be caught red handed by Altaïr. They spent almost a week here, and when they returned to Masyaf, the three young novices were more than grateful to the luxury the fortress offers.

Their training begins a bit late in the afternoon. The usual knife throwing training, then followed by the dagger training. This time, they are keeping their distance from the river, seeing that they have no dry clothes for spare.

Then at night, once the sun has set, Ambra manages to see the night sky clearly. The stars and a bit of blue and green hues adorning the darkness. This is it, a heaven on earth. She notices Altaïr refilling their waterskins by the riverside, and she approaches him to wrap his kaftan over his bare shoulders.

He chuckles, "It seems you're enjoying this far more than expected."

She takes the filled waterskins from him, while he slides his arms into the sleeves of the kaftan. "Should i not?"

"I brought you here for the prospect of training."

"Yet you brought cedar oil with you."

"Aren't you glad i did?" He pulls her hips to him, stealing a kiss from her surprised look. "Tomorrow, we'll continue training as usual. There will be an elevation before winter, and i expect you to gain a rank."

She nods, nose touching his. "I'll try my best, Altaïr."

"That's what i like to hear." He kisses her again. When they part, he sighs deeply. "Once we're back in Masyaf, we should hold back from intimacy during training. It's bad enough that the brethren can notice my marks on your neck, we don't want anyone to think less of either of us."

"Perhaps marking me below the neckline..." She mutters, earning a grip on her bottom from him.

He hums idly, "That can be done. Instructor and student by day, and you're mine by night."

How oddly beautiful that the former word 'mine' used to mean something less for her, yet now hearing it spoken by him in a completely different context holds higher meaning for her, sending her heart jumping, and she is melting in his embrace.

 

By the time they return to Masyaf, after a week of constant training, and she finally gets the hang of knife throwing, there is a drastic change in the air.

A war is happening in Jerusalem.

It should not bother Masyaf, yet it still brings gloomy cloud with it. Ambra is surprised to see refugees huddling in the streets of Masyaf, sheltered by makeshift canopies, wrapped in the only clothes they have. Men, women, children - all ages and genders, well and injured, are gathering together. She must have slowed down on her way to the fortress, because then Altaïr nudges her back on trail.

This must have brought bad memories to Altaïr, is her initial thought. He is frowning, gaze focuses on the guarded path to the fortress. She still remembers the story of his past, how he came to lose his father, and how he first met Abbas, Malik, and Rauf as they were also taking refuge in the fortress.

Surprisingly, the gate of the fortress is closed. Only when the guard notices Altaïr that he gestures the gate to be opened. Ambra looks around the training field, where the brethren are still continuing their training - are they oblivious to the refugees in the city?

"Can't we help them?" She voices out her concern upon entering the western tower.

"Masyaf is open for those who seeks peace. I'm sure Al-Mu'alim has given help to the refugees." Altaïr replies.

"Then why locking the gate?"

"In case you forget, we are not the army. Who we are is meant to be kept as secret to the world." He glances at her. "Al-Mu'alim's safety is crucial to the Brotherhood, Ambra. That, and the fact that we have a library full of desirable knowledge any men would die to learn from."

But it does not answer her question. If the assassins' goal is for peace and justice, then why putting a barrier between them and the refugees? Altaïr senses her doubt, stopping in the hallway to look at her.

"We can't save everyone, Ambra. You should know that."

She nods once in reply, "Yes, Altaïr."

The gloomy air in Masyaf does not seem to affect the flowers of the garden. After asking for Altaïr's permission to spend the rest of her day in the garden, Ambra enters to find the beautiful courtesans greeting with soft smiles and embraces.

Their questions come rushing down as they notice the faded marks left by Altaïr on her neck. "Someone got busy, i see." Talia nudges her shoulder as they are sitting down on the grass, enjoying the cool shade of the castle.

"Not too busy, i hope. I still have trainings to do." Ambra replies, lying down on her back, admiring the clear sky and the shaded part of the castle. The windows are reflecting the sunrays quite beautifully. "All of J-J-Jaqq's associates are dead. All i need is to kill the head and that is it. My friends will be saved."

Talia hums contently, fingers playing with the tips of her hair. "You're getting closer to your goal, Ambra, but," she rolls to her stomach, "have you thought of what you're going to say to the man? A parting words?"

"He doesn't deserve any soothing words."

"Ah, then a quick death?"

"I suppose so." She sighs, "Al-Mu'alim taught me that even the worst human being deserves painless death. Let their sins greet them in the hereafter."

"But you disagree." Talia guesses correctly.

"I've been used and abused - and that is only a small bit of what my friends are facing daily in the mill. We are expendables and worthless. Truth be told, i've been delivering less than swift death, yet i haven't decided yet on how i would kill J-Jaqq."

"You're still stuttering to say his name."

Ambra tenses unconsciously, "His name is not to be uttered, Talia. To be able to say it and survive is a blessing."

"He is not here." Talia rolls closer to Ambra. "Have i told you of how i become a courtesan?"

"Oh no, not this." Nisa comments.

Talia chuckles, but soon fades. "My mother was a courtesan, and i was the illegitimate daughter with a rich merchant. However much she wants me to not follow her path, i ended up being a courtesan too, a successful one, to be honest." There is a smile on that beautiful face of her that only makes her even more beautiful. "Then i fell in love.

"He was a guard for that rich merchant. A gentle man, always so caring, never raised his voice on me." Talia inhales deeply and closes her eyes, as if remembering. "One day he went out to escort the merchant. Their caravan was raided by bandits, and - well... He died a hero.

"My mother and i lost our purpose. Even worse, the neighbors began to harrass us. My mother told me to leave the city, while she decided to run away with a foreign man." Talia's smile grows as Ambra reaches out to hold her hand. "I arrived in Masyaf not knowing of what i would do. I was sitting down, crying, exhausted, when out of nowhere came a group of boys - the novices, i suppose. They asked of what happened - and adorably, they thought i was harrassed by someone, they were asking 'who did this to you?' and claiming they would make the culprit pay." Talia laughs a bit, face becoming a bit red.

"And then?" Ambra asks.

"One of them left, but a few moments later, he returned saying that i should come with them. So i did - and i was surprised to see the inside of the fortress for the very first time - but what i remember most is the way those boys tried to shield me from their brethren. They walked around me like guards." Talia laughs again, shaking her head at the memory. "Al-Mu'alim offered me a place in the garden once he knew of what i went through. To be honest, Ambra, being a courtesan means there is a risk of being treated disrespectfully by men. They can do anything they want to pleasure themselves. But here? I found no such thing.

"The brethren come and go as they please, true, but they are considerate enough to treat me - to treat us - like humans. Then Al-Mu'alim would come sometimes, and he would ask questions and listen to our opinions. I thought life could not be any better, but then you came, and you show how determined you are to fight for your friends." Talia raises her hand to cup Ambra's cheek. "If there is any wisdom i've gained from my time here, i would say that you should always look beyond the pain. Something good is waiting for you in the end. It always does."

Ambra feels hands wrapping around her back, hugging her, and she turns to find Lina latching herself there. "There is always ease after hardship."

Ambra sighs into the embrace, face leaning into Talia's touch. She wonders of what really awaits for her in the end. These three years, despite the distraction and the company she keeps, have been agonizing. But truly, what awaits her?

The answer comes in the evening, in Altaïr's room, in form of a scroll being unrolled by him to show to her. The content sends her both hot and cold. All the muscle in her body instantly tightens, stomach turning, and she is trying so hard not to tremble.

"Jaqq is marked for death." Altaïr says indifferently. "Based on the informations gathered by the bureau in Sis, and by the parchments found with Jaqq's associates, Al-Mu'alim has given permission to conduct this mission." He points to a hand-drawn map, "The mill is located by the river, yes?"

Stiffly, Ambra nods, still remembering the river where the cattles had to be bathe in. The same river the slavers liked to use to throw the slaves in, for fun, seeing how they cannot swim.

"If we're going to approach this, we do so carefully. Jaqq has more associates - the Crusaders, to be exact - which means there could be Templars as well. We will go to Sis to meet with the brethren, then we will head to Tarsus through the trader's route. Ambra," Altaïr snaps his fingers in front of her, startling her. "You're spacing out."

"No - i heard you." She quickly says.

His eyes narrow a bit, "We will leave in two days. The journey will take about a week or two - are you ready?"

She looks at him, eyes burning with incoming tears, "I've been waiting for this, yes, i'm ready."

He rolls the parchment into a scroll, "The brethren and i will clear the way. You will be the one to deliver death to Jaqq." The words send her trembling with excitement. Her heart beats loudly, she barely hears what Altaïr is saying afterwards.

She huffs a shuddering breath as Altaïr concludes their discussion. It goes unnoticed by him, but she does not care. Her mind is playing the memories of living in the mill, all the things she had to go through daily, the suffering, the routine. Most importantly, Sofi. She cannot wait to see her again. It will certainly be a tearful reunion - will she be proud of her?

Altaïr has left her to her own thoughts, now heading to the wardrobe to store the scroll. She turns to him, "Thank you, Altaïr."

"What for?" He frowns.

"For training me to be who i am right now. You've shaped me into who i am and trained me with the best method." She smiles and wipes the renegade tears falling to her cheeks.

He gestures for her to come closer, and so she does. He sits down on the carpet, and obediently, she follows. "By now, i'm sure you're excited for the mission."

"I am, Altaïr." She crosses her legs in front of him.

He raises his left hand for her to take, "I've said this many times, but this serves as a reminder. I understand your wish to kill Jaqq, again, i ask you, what will become of you afterwards?" He encases her hand in his palm. "Are you fueled by hatred right now, or is it justice?"

"Both." She replies quietly.

"Once you've freed your friends, there's a chance you may not see them again, Ambra. Can you accept that?" He looks at her intently.

This life is binding until death, that she knows. She is required to stay in Masyaf, to do missions and trainings, and there is a bigger purpose that the Assassin Brotherhood serves other than killing bad people. To be honest, it pains her. She occasionally daydreams of the day where she can introduce her friends to her brethren, or simply to Altaïr, so they will know that she is in good hands. Yet now another life has separated them.

She brings Altaïr's hand to her cheek, holding the palm against her skin, taking in his calmness. "I can't say that i'm ready, but i will try."

The answer is enough to him. He pulls her head to his shoulder, half-embracing her. The gesture calms her down slowly, as if his touch also takes the excess energy of hatred from her heart, and she finds her eyes closing. Her breath becomes even soon, lost in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.


	39. Chapter 39

Two days seem so slow when you are waiting for something. Even right now, as Ambra is on the horse, pacing lightly out of the outskirt of Masyaf, she still feels that time has slowed down completely. Altaïr is riding beside her, still pacing lightly. Winter is coming soon. The sky is cloudy today, with a promise of either rain or snow.

She tries to calm herself down, but it is to no avail. She is impatient to reach Tarsus, to kill Jaqq, to hug Sofi, to finally cry out her agony. But there is still two weeks of journey to be had, quite possibly more, with the war that is happening. They need to be careful. Passing the Saracens will not be a good move, and it has grown to be a possibility, seeing the numbers of them on the road.

Altaïr is on alert as well. It is impossible to start talking to him without disturbing. This is torture, Ambra thinks, as she is left to her own mind. She tries to recall the good times with the brethren; Kadar and his laughter, Tholeb's air of wisdom and playful grin, Malik and his eternal teasing. She even remembers Rauf's softly spoken words of wisdom to stretch her left arm every morning so it heals faster. Then she remembers Abbas, the cynical instructor rarely has anything to say to her, but he offered a small nod whenever they met.

The first week of their journey results to a stay in Aleppo. The rafiq is too tired to talk that he simply waves the two of them off. Altaïr leads her to the meditation room. For once, finally, he loses the eternal mask of frowning and changes it with face of exhaustion.

"At this rate, we may reach Sis on the third week." He sighs against the pillows, damp dark hair pressing onto the fabrics.

Ambra sits down beside him, stretching her legs. "Why does this war happen?" She absentmindenly asks. The number of Saracens and Crusaders they saw along the road is too many to her liking. How intimidating and genuinely terrifying.

"Salah Al-Din is going to take Jerusalem from the Crusaders. The people of Jerusalem have divided opinions - most of them choose Salah Al-Din, and that alone causes internal battle within the city. Though i believe the Crusaders are more focused on keeping Salah Al-Din away than dealing with protesting citizens." Altaïr replies. Ambra feels his hand touching her upper back. "Are you alright?"

She nods, "I think i will be." She leans against his touch, more than happy to lie down and rest her head on his chest. He smells mostly of his musk, and a hint of leather and horse fur. She looks up to see his face. He has not closed his eyes yet, gaze focusing on the door, unblinking. There are dark circles underneath his eyes.

He catches her stare too late, "Hmm?"

"I didn't say anything." She reaches up to touch his stubbled jaw that has formed a thin beard, since he has not had the time to shave. "You look tired."

"Just need a rest." He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. She can hear his heart beating a bit loudly, breathing gets a bit harder, as if he is brewing something in his chest.

She scoots closer to his face, pecking a kiss onto his cheek, sending his eyes to open in surprise. "Please don't overwork yourself. I know you're more than capable to withstand the tension of this mission, but this is my mission too."

He gives a deep hum, lips tugging to a small smile, "The enemies are always around us, Ambra, we can't risk getting recognized or ambushed. The assassins and the Saracens aren't exactly seeing eye to eye." His expression suddenly hardens, brows furrowing, and smile faltering. He shakes it off as quickly as it comes. "Never mind about that. Just focus on the mission, and i'll focus on getting us to Sis safely."

She raises her hand to smoothen out the frowns on his forehead. He lets out another sigh as she begins to apply light pressure, massaging the center of his forehead to the temple. "As your lov - as yours -" she quickly rectifies, "your well-being is important to me. If it's permitted, may i buy some herbs tomorrow to bring along the way? I'm not praying for anything bad to happen - just taking precaution in case either of us gets ill."

"The rafiq may have some." He sighs deeply as she now uses both of her hands to massage his temples. "Tomorrow, let's just ride on the same horse, Ambra."

She stops, "Why?"

His eyelids flutter open heavily, "Two reasons. One, two riders on a horse attract less attention. People would assume we're a passing parent with a daughter -" he chuckles as she smacks his shoulder lightly upon the remark, "- and two, should either of us need a rest, we can lean against each other."

"You always said it's dangerous to sleep on a horse." She protests, hands returning to massage him lightly.

"When you're riding alone, of course, it's dangerous. How many times have you slept while riding with me, i wonder." He raises an eyebrow.

She blushes, muttering, "It was long ago, Altaïr. We were riding to Jerusalem for Hayyiz."

"Yes, and you are still as short as you were."

She groans in protest, burying her face to the side of his chest, earning a laughter from him. Has it really been that long? Three years, is it not? Silently, she is recalling the early days in Masyaf, the first encounters with the brethren, the meeting with the courtesans. She remembers borrowing her first book in the library, a medical book by Ibn Sina, as recommended by Altaïr to help her understand more of the vital points in human body. She remembers dancing with Nisa and Zainab in the garden, with Alma singing to accompany. She remembers mourning for the death of the fallen brethren - mostly the higher ranked - and she remembers of Hamzah's injury.

Funny, she thinks, she cannot remember the precise moment that makes her fall for Altaïr. Is it because of the trainings and the nightly discussion? Or the time when they took care of each other? Could it be when he kissed her? His presence fills her life in the way that she never knows before - a growth from being too afraid to be masterless to being afraid of losing him. She knows she would do anything to please him, to avoid his anger, to ensure his well-being. But she also knows she would do so because it is her duty as his servant.

She wonders if the situation is changed, if, for example, she was given to Malik or Rauf or Abbas. Would she fall for them too? Would her desire to serve the master turn into a relationship like this? She wonders if she were liberated, would she still choose to be with Altaïr.

Relationship is foreign to her. Though she wants to ask Altaïr of the subject, she fears he will recline from discussing such things, since she knows how he is with words. She raises her gaze to look at him, finding his eyes closed and expression relaxing. She sighs and decides to follow him to sleep.

 

The war has never been easy to anyone. Despite it is happening in Jerusalem and the surrounding area, it still manages to damn the lives of innocent people even from afar. Altaïr forces the horse to a gallop as they are passing a group of wounded travellers, all waving their hands, begging for him to stop to help. As much as he would like to do so, they have no supply to spare for the wounded.

"Keep your head low." He mutters against Ambra's ear as they have left the group, only to be met with more ahead on the road.

The smell of blood is thick in the air. No matter how many times he has smelled it, familiarized himself with it, his nose twitches at it. While Ambra is gagging as a response, hands covering her mouth to avoid throwing up altogether. He paces the horse faster, hoping to quickly get away from the hellish view.

Taking a rest proves to be difficult. The oasis is surrounded by people, and the riverside brings a faint trail of blood with the stream. Nevertheless, they need to rest, so does the horse. Altaïr tries pacing the horse lightly, eyes scanning the area for a place to rest, yet only finding sorrows and grieving people.

The view becomes a bit better once night falls in. His focus shifts constantly, trying to figure out what lurks in the darkness, finding specks of gray hues adorning here and there. His ears catch the distant cries of the survivors. At least the smell of blood is not as heavy as before.

He is yawning for the many times, pressing his mouth against Ambra's hood as he is doing so. The cold night air has made her wear the kaftan the other way around, shielding both her front and his hands from the wind. The trapped body heat helps warming them up.

His head feels a bit pounding from constantly shifting his focus. The blessing helps with a price of exhaustion, rendering him to feel a bit heavy - that, and the fact that they only ate apricots to minimize their resting time.

He leans forward to Ambra, hands wrapping around her waist, nuzzling the side of her head. "I'm going to rest for a while. Take the rein."

The night feels longer than it actually is. He wakes up to find they have passed a caravanserais, and Ambra humming a tune similar to what Malik usually hums. He should ask her where she learns that, but not now, as it proves to be soothing and soon he dozes off again.

When he opens his eyes again, the morning heat greets him, followed by a cracking sound as he lifts his head from Ambra's shoulder. There is a muffled chattering nearby, his eyes registering a hooded figure on a horse beside him. He immediately tenses, one hand draws out a knife from Ambra's belt.

"Ah, he's awake at last." Says the hooded stranger. The voice is unfamiliar, muffled by a mask covering up to his nose. Altaïr's focus shifts to find his hue to be blue - an ally.

"Who are you?" Altaïr asks warily.

Ambra nudges his knife-holding hand to lower, "He has been accompanying us for a while."

Altaïr lowers his hand, but still holds the knife tightly, "Why didn't you say anything?" He chides her.

The stranger chuckles, "You were sleeping soundly, and she needed a company. I happened to pass by. I hope you don't mind, we have pleasant talks along the way, don't we, Ambra?"

Well, she is clearly careless for talking to stranger now, Altaïr frowns. "Where are you heading to, brother?"

The stranger nods, "Same as you."

Altaïr frowns deeper, "What is your name?"

The stranger does not reply.

"Look -"

"There's a storm coming." The stranger cuts him off. "It's still far ahead, but it may be deadly, much bigger than you've ever faced. All those years in training, do you think you have it within you to face the truth?"

Altaïr cocks his head to the side, "You're not making sense."

"I was like you. Arrogant and distant. You may not realize it now, but the seeds of arrogance has grown within you. It's amazing that Ambra manages to stay so loyal to you. Any other person would have abandoned you."

Altaïr opens his mouth to reply, yet finding his words die down as his eyes scan the surrounding. This is not the path to Sis at all. The spring flowers are blooming, the morning haze is fleeting nearby, and the sky - when does it get so clear?

Ambra chuckles in front of him, "You shouldn't talk lowly of him. Altaïr is honorable."

The stranger chuckles as well, "That i notice." He suddenly stops his horse, and Ambra pulls the rein to a stop as well.

"Are we there yet?" Ambra asks.

"Where?" Altaïr returns the question, now focusing on the stranger beside him. This is a dream - or did they get attacked by black magic at night? I shouldn't have slept, he curses deeply. "Who are you?"

The stranger raises his left hand, showing the missing ring finger, "I'm one of yours, if you still believe such thing."

"What thing?" Altaïr raises the knife towards the stranger's throat. This should be a dream, or he will be forced to threat an assassin he does not know.

Ambra turns to the stranger, "You're not coming?"

Altaïr grips her around the waist tightly, warningly, yet the stranger replies with a hum. "I believe i have come several years too soon. It was nice talking to you, Ambra."

"Answer me!" Altaïr grits his teeth, impatience growing. Who does this person think he is? How dare he comes out of nowhere and mocks him nonchalantly?

The stranger takes Altaïr's wrist, pushing almost with no force, until the knife is away from his throat. Altaïr finds himself struggling to keep his arm steady. This man can't be real, he thinks, relenting. It is unreal, when the stranger turns to look at him for the first time, and he can see the dark hazel orbs of the man, framed by wrinkles and lines of aging. The familiarity almost makes him think that he is seeing a mirror - or a ghost. The stranger speaks again.

"There's not much time, but i'm glad you've grown into a man, Altaïr."

Only now, too late to notice, that Altaïr realizes the owner of the voice. His heart jumps, knife thrown aside, as he desperately tries to hold onto the arm of the stranger. How can he not notice him sooner?

"Father..."

The stranger hums again acknowledgingly, "Nothing is true."

"Everything is permitted." Ambra replies, tone jovial and calm, as if not noticing Altaïr's struggle. She raises a hand and takes Altaïr's arm, gently tugging him down, "I'm sorry, Altaïr, but we have to go."

He feels the horse starts moving, "Wait - father!"

"Be mindful of what i said, Altaïr. You may believe me or not, it's your choice." The voice becomes a bit distant. Altaïr is tempted to jump off the horse, only to be met by the click of the tongue of the stranger, "Still so impatient. We'll have eternity when we meet again."

"Father!"

And as fast as it comes, the stranger disappears with a gush of wind. Altaïr turns around on his seat to find nothing behind him. He feels that familiar feeling he fears to experience again - the same feeling the moment his father walked ahead to be executed, not listening to the cries calling out his name, and right now Altaïr wonders if it is fate to have his father taken in both reality and dream.

But the gentle kneading of Ambra's hand on his arm somehow calms him down, and she repeats the humming he has been listening. Nonchalant of the encounter - is this the real her or this is just another figment of his dream? He feels her tugging him closer until his head rests on her shoulder, resuming the same position, and he can feel the thrumming in her chest as she continues humming. Soon, his eyes turn heavy, and darkness welcomes him.

He truly wakes up with a jolt that startles both Ambra and the horse. She quickly pulls the rein to a stop, "Altaïr -"

But he has jumps off the horse. The sleep-fogged mind soon awakes as the smell of the morning dew greets. The sliver of ray from the sunrise is evident in the distance, parting the dark sky with its orange hue. But he cannot stand still, instead, pacing back and forth with clenched hands.

That dream. It is never a good thing when a deceased person comes to visit in a dream, even worse if it comes with a warning. What was it again? A dangerous event is about to come, and he may have a change of personality along the way? Arrogance?

Altaïr flinches as a hand tugs him to a stop, and he instinctively unsheathes his hidden blade, only to be parried by another hidden blade. He stops, panting, as the emerald greens are widening in terror after parrying the sudden attack. "Altaïr, it's me." Ambra says shakily.

He sheathes his blade, sighing. This is reality, he reminds himself, yet he cannot understand why Ambra seems so content talking to the figment of dream of his father. I supposed there's no way of knowing why right now, he shakes his head. "Where are we?"

She moves hesitantly towards him, taking his arm to lead him under the shade of a tree, "We're about to reach the Armenian border, i think."

He sits down under the tree, leaning against the trunk. He watches her leading the horse closer. "You're not wrong," he says, glancing around to find that indeed they are closing in towards the border. "Haven't you slept through the night?"

"No - it's alright, i'm not tired." She brings back their pouch of food and waterskin, and sits down across him. Only now he notices the dark circle under her eyes, proof of staying up all night, and the dust layering her face and hood. She is checking the content of the pouch, "We still have a bit of salted meat. Would you like to have breakfast now?"

"Now's a good time." He gruffly replies. He pulls down his hood to run his hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head, sighing. The rest is unpleasant, and as much as he wants to have more, it is dangerous to tempt fate on the road. They could endure a few more days to reach Sis, and only then they can rest as much as they like.

As they are eating in silence, Altaïr keeps on thinking of his dream. It feels almost real, that he can still feel his father's hand against his armbrace, the muffled voice reaching his ears, the similar golden orbs looking back at him, and his own hand gripping Ambra tightly around the waist. He wonders what kind of danger lurking ahead. Is it about this mission? Or about something else?

He must have a weird look, because Ambra scoots closer to press a hand over his forehead - an action he realizes too late to his liking. "You're a bit feverish." She says, expression turns into worry. "I brought herbs from Aleppo -"

"No need to." He catches her hand before she can move away.

"Altaïr," she sits closer beside him, eyebrows frowning, "what's wrong?"

How to explain this? He sighs, shaking his head, "It was only a dream."

She takes his hands, "What was it about?"

He looks at her, registering the serious look of concern, "I dreamt of my father. You and me were riding on the horse, and he was riding beside us. It seemed that he had come sometime during our journey, and he talked to you, i don't know about what, but that is beside the point." He feels her thumbs rubbing his hands soothingly. "Dreaming of the dead is never a good thing, Ambra. It means they're warning you of something, either good or bad, but mostly bad. My father came to warn me of a deadly event that may soon come -" he inhales deeply, "or not. He said he had come too early."

She drops her gaze to their joined hands, "Did he mean this mission?"

"I'm not sure, but even i can't deny the possibility of how this mission will end. You said it yourself, Jaqq is a man of power. He will be well-guarded and armed, and we'll be forced to fight to reach him." Altaïr rubs the back of his neck to ease the tension there.

She rubs his stub, "Is that why you woke up agitated?"

He smiles thinly, "It was a drastic change. In the dream, it was springtime, and here i woke up to the beginning of winter." He glances around, focus shifting to ensure they are safe for now. He finds nothing and no one around them, except for Ambra's golden hue beside him. "You, however, is more concerning. Take a rest for today."

She shakes her head, "If i sleep, you won't be able to speak when the Armenian soldiers come around."

He scoffs, "I learned French, i'm sure Armenian isn't that hard."

She smiles a bit, "I don't doubt your intelligence, but please, right now i can still stay awake until we reach the border." He watches her bringing up his hand to her face, and she plants a kiss to his gloved palm, before pressing her cheek to it. There is a blush spreading slowly on her cheeks as she realizes he is watching her.

This is new, he finds himself thinking. Ever since he confessed - more like demanded - he finds her to be more open to him. Less hesitation as she initiates the first move, which is good, as it is what he has been looking for from her since the beginning. He wants and needs her to be independent.

She smiles shyly at him, "Please take more rest on the horse."

He chuckles, shaking his head, "Let's see which one of us sleeps first."


	40. Chapter 40

Passing the Armenian border proves to be easy. It is blending in with people that proves to be a bit difficult. They are nearing Sis, finally, as he has grown irritated by the lack of understanding of the language. Ambra has shown how she switches to Armenian fluently and easily, as she bargains for the price of food with a merchant, eventually spending a bit more time talking with the merchant's wife. As they are on their way, Ambra finally explains that the merchant's wife said taking the trader's route to reach Sis will be a lot faster than taking the traveller's route.

A familiar face is waiting by the stable of Sis, and Altaïr genuinely smiles at the sight of his former student. Sofyan has grown so much, now having thin beard, and he has become bulkier than before. He certainly has gained weight, Altaïr notices.

"Safety and peace." Comes the greeting from Sofyan as he takes the rein of the horse and leads it to a stop.

"Safety and peace." Altaïr replies almost at the same time as Ambra, though lacking her energetic air. He climbs down the horse, eyes automatically scanning the unfamiliar area, taking in the numerous grey hues of the strangers around them. He returns his gaze to find Ambra and Sofyan patting each other's arms, both equally grinning from ear to ear, muttering to ask the condition of each other. He cannot help but smile at their action.

Sis is a big city, quite prosperous, and well-guarded. The Armenian language passing through his ears still irks him, for he has no knowledge of what they are talking about. Thankfully, the two young assassins have finished their greetings, now looking at him. Sofyan approaches, "Let me take you to the bureau. I'm sure the journey has exhausted you so, Altaïr."

"Lead on." Altaïr replies.

Walking into the city is simple, by simply walking through the guards like commoners. Inside the city walls, they are greeted by the similar daily life of people as in Masyaf, though they seem a bit restless and move hastily, like people of Jerusalem. Altaïr takes note of his surrounding, memorizing, assassin instinct kicks in to find possible structures to attack and hide within.

"How's Masyaf?" Sofyan asks as he walks beside him.

Altaïr glances to him, but finding Ambra already opening her mouth to answer, "It's a bit crowded with refugees now, but otherwise everything still moves accordingly."

Sofyan nods, "I see. I was hoping the war won't affect Masyaf so much, but i guess it's better to have refugees than soldiers in the city." He leads them towards an alley. "Is Tholeb still teaching?"

"Yes - and his students are a mouthful." Ambra replies quickly.

"Clearly have no respect for ranks." Altaïr adds under his breath.

Sofyan laughs, "I'm sure he can keep them in line. You know how he is when he's serious, right, Ambra? He'd suddenly turn into an old man, truly scary and intimidating -"

"Something you can actually learn from." Altaïr cuts him off, earning another laughter from the former student. "Where's the bureau?"

The alley they are walking in leads to a darken and secluded end. Sofyan points up, "The entrance is above, three stories high, but the bureau is on the second floor. Please follow me."

Altaïr watches as Sofyan runs up the wall to grab a ledge with agile movement. Shortly, himself follows. He hangs on the ledge of the second floor to look below, noticing Ambra taking a few steps back before running up the wall and catching the ledge beside him. He lets her climb ahead to join Sofyan on the roof.

The entrance to the bureau is the same rooftop gate leading into a small chamber, a makeshift garden. The only difference is that the gate is not grated, instead it is solid wood, and not open. More like a hatch. Sofyan is holding it open to allow both Altaïr and Ambra to slide inside. The former student follows, closing the hatch tightly.

"We had to change a few things to ensure safety. The guards are more cautious here." Sofyan explains. "Through this door," he walks ahead, opening the only door in view, "this is the common room."

Altaïr steps in first, finding the warmth of the burning brazier greeting him. There is a pot of stew cooking above it. The room is mostly covered with carpets, heaps of pillows here and there, an incense burning on the shelf, and a tapestry hanging on the wall. He notices three faces of the brethren looking at him from where they are sitting, nodding, acknowledging, "Safety and peace, Altaïr."

"Safety and peace." He returns the greeting, noticing they may be either Ahmed or Labib's students. He hears Ambra exchanging the same greeting behind him.

Sofyan walks past him, "Through here is the sleeping quarters." He leads them to a large room, again, with carpet-covered floor. A few assassins raise their heads from the pillows they are resting on. A familiar face peaks up with interest.

"Altaïr!" Hamzah's voice booms loudly in the room, as he stands up and approaches with long strides. There is a wide grin on his stubbled face. "Safety and peace - when did you arrive? Ambra, how are you?" Hamzah continues the question, eagerly patting on Ambra's arm, and she replies the action.

"We arrived this afternoon." Altaïr replies nonchalantly, registering Hamzah's new look. This one now carries a crossbow, and he has changed his belt to allow him to carry more throwing knives. "I see you've gotten an upgrade."

Hamzah smiles, trying to keep his composure despite the eager look in his eyes. "My injury may halt me, but this," he pats his crossbow, "makes the fight even."

"Yes, you get to watch from afar while we fight in close combat." Sofyan comments with a grin.

"Is it still painful? Your injury?" Ambra asks, eyeing the center of Hamzah's chest, where he absentmindedly kneads.

"A bit. Labib said a grave injury can end the life of an assassin. I'm glad i wasn't placed as a scholar -"

"Always the brawl first before the mind." Sofyan comments lightheartedly.

As much as Altaïr enjoys the playful banters of the young assassins, rest is much needed. He can see how eager Ambra is to stay and talk more, which falters as she meets his gaze, silently understanding their priority. "We should report first." He says.

"Oh," Sofyan walks to the next door, opening it. Altaïr follows, "the staircase is right here. At the end of the hallway there is the meditation room." He looks at Altaïr, still a smile on his face, "I understand if there are things that remain unspoken, i won't press on -"

Altaïr raises an eyebrow, "What things?"

Sofyan frowns, lowering his voice, "Ambra's last mission and her injury. Tholeb informed us."

Ah sentiment. "How much did he describe?"

"He said she nearly died. She might be, had you and Malik not come for her." Sofyan's air of joy turns into sorrow. "I still remember what i felt even after Hamzah recovered. Whenever i see him, i can't help but think how different this may be if i hadn't stubbornly tried to save him. He was a lost cause, even the rafiq said i should just end his misery." He turns his head to look behind, where Hamzah is still talking with Ambra.

Altaïr hums once, "Both of you grew up together. Technically you are brothers."

Sofyan turns his gaze to him, "I'm just glad i didn't fail. His death would have damned me."

Altaïr scoffs, "I doubt he would want you to feel like that. There's a reason why we train our mind, Sofyan, and that is exactly why. You'll lose people, close brethren, families, friends - death is expected."

"Yes," Sofyan sighs, smiling a bit. "I guess i never expected it to come like that." He clears his throat, "Apologies. You're tired and here i gush over uninmportant things. The bureau is downstairs, and the bathhouse is on the ground floor. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

I do need something, Altaïr thinks as he reaches behind to his pouch, retrieving a small wooden jar. He hands it to Sofyan, "I need cedar oil."

The former student looks a bit confused at first before realizing, eyebrows raised and blush coming up his cheeks in embarrassment. "Oh - yes, certainly -"

"Keep your mind decent. I need it for ointment." Altaïr rectifies. Well, it is not wrong, it is a good ointment for massage. He hands him a few coins from his pouch, "See if you can find honey as well."

Sofyan accepts the coins, "I'll deliver it to you immediately."

Altaïr glances back, catching Ambra glancing back at him, and he motions her to follow. She pats Hamzah on the arm before leaving to follow Altaïr again. He walks downstairs ahead, listening to her footsteps behind him.

The bureau is well-lit, with numerous books and scrolls on the shelves against the wall, a burning fireplace in the corner, and a couple of large pillows by a chess table. The rafiq, Ahmed, the former instructor, is standing behind the counter, talking with Labib. Altaïr's entrance shifts his attention - still with the sharp eyes. "Oh, Altaïr, Ambra. Safety and peace."

"Safety and peace, rafiq." Altaïr replies, approaching the counter. "We will be resting under your roof for now, unless you require something from us."

Labib chuckles, "You just arrived. Relax and sleep for a while. Ah, Ambra," he smiles at her, then proceeds to speak in Armenian. The action makes her flinch in surprise, and she steps forward to reply with the same language.

"It irritates you, doesn't it? In the first few weeks after we arrived here, he has spoken like a true Armenian." Ahmed says to Altaïr. "Speaking of irritating, i'm sure you'll find this to your liking." He hands a scroll to him. Altaïr picks it up to unroll it, glad for once that it is a map of Sis. "I've had the liberty to mark some safe spots. You'll find the brethren and informants in the places that have been marked."

The map is littered with symbols, and a legend is drawn in the corner, explaining the symbols. Altaïr nods, rolling the map into a scroll, "Thank you, rafiq. For resting, i'd like to request the use of your meditation room."

"By all means, use it to your will. We'll see you again whenever you're ready."

 

It is at late afternoon when they finally lie down on the carpet of the meditation room. The proof of enduring weeks of journey have been washed away with a much needed bath and a change of clothes. Altaïr finds Sofyan's note on the door, telling him that he has placed what he requested in the room. The newly filled wooden jar of cedar oil and another jar of honey are now resting in the corner, by his effects.

He stretches the strained muscles of his back and calves, groaning at the aftermath, before slumping back against the pillows. His hair has gotten a bit longer, with the tips touching his forehead, and he makes a mental note to cut it later. His face is free from beard and uneven stubble.

Ambra is combing her damp hair by the door, fingers threading through to gather the fallen strands. She looks even more exhausted with almost bloodshot eyes. He waits for her to finish gathering and securing the fallen hair in the pouch of her belt.

She falls down gracelessly to the pillows beside him. Sighing, she turns to her back, stretching as much as she can. "By Allah, that was wonderful."

He hums in agreement. Ever since passing the border, they have reserved their sleeping time. She would fall asleep against him, and he would do the same afterwards. He has to admit, there were moments when he woke up with his manhood pressing against her, and she - thankfully - generously moved forward as if afraid of hurting him.

"We can start tomorrow or the day after," he says after a bit of silence. "More sleep for now. Winter might be a bit harsher here."

She hums in reply, turning around to face him, eyes closing.

He closes his eyes as well, sighing blissfully for finally having a proper position to rest. Even his tired mind cannot think of a plan of what to do tomorrow. All he knows is they are on a foreign land, closer to Tarsus, and Ambra's goal will be fulfilled soon.


	41. Chapter 41

Sometimes Ambra wonders if her life will be the same had she asked only to be taken as a servant, not as an assassin.

Sitting on top of one of the numerous towers of Sis, she observes the city down below. The busy life of the citizen is just begun. Merchants calling for customers, men and women alike walking on the road to go about their business, children sticking close to their parents, the guards patrolling idly - and of course, the informants and assassins alike blending in with the commoners.

Hearing her native language being spoken so deliberately makes her feel safe. It is not like she hates Arabic, no, she is certainly glad to have knowledge in the language. But it has been years since she last heard Armenian being spoken so freely and easily, and here she tries to remind herself constantly that she is nearing Tarsus, not back at Masyaf.

Her emerald eyes turn to the still figure of Altaïr. As much as she would like to spend the day in the bureau, this man decides to drag her to observe Sis better. He has been standing, watching, observing, for what seems like hours. Since the morning, they have been moving from one tower to the next to get a better view of the city. She hopes he is not planning to continuously do this until night.

As if hearing her thought, Altaïr turns his gaze to her, "What do you feel right now?"

She exhales heavily, "Calm. A bit anxious to reach Tarsus, but mostly calm."

He nods, "Understandably. Have you been meditating?"

"No, i don't feel it's necessary." She replies honestly. "I've been thinking on the road, well, reflecting, i guess." She watches Altaïr steps down from the edge of the tower to approach her. He takes a seat beside her, legs dangling, mimicing her pose. "So many things have happened in the past three years, and honestly, i'm surprised of it."

"That you're one step closer to kill Jaqq?"

"Yes," she looks at him, taking the sight of his hooded face, "i still remember my first week in the fortress. There was a rage burning inside me, mixed with pain and sorrow for leaving my friends behind. All i wanted was to learn quickly, to obey your command, and to kill Jaqq mercilessly. It wasn't easy to put up a mask of bravery every day - sometimes i still do, put a mask, i mean..." She takes in the golden orbs of his, "But you see right through me. You helped me to trust you, to lower my mask, to take my rights as a human being and not merely a property. As a master, you've treated me as an equal, something that a servant shouldn't deserve at all -"

There is a slight change of expression on Altaïr's face. Ambra believes it is from what she just said, so she moves her hand to take his, feeling the leather gloves he is wearing.

He turns slightly to her, cupping her face in both of his gloved palms, leaning down to kiss her deeply. The sudden action startles her, but she swallows her words, bringing her hands to grip his leather holster. His lips are chapped from the wind, and he remedies it with a swipe of his tongue. By Heaven - she inhales the smell of his musk, the warmness of his skin, the thumping heartbeat in his chest.

He pulls back a bit, "I did not kiss you because you're my servant." He mutters lowly, caressing her cheeks, "and i did not bed you because i'm your master and instructor. Keep that in mind."

She pulls on his holster, bringing his lips closer for another kiss. His hands move to hold her lower back, kneading against her belt. So this is a relationship then? She wonders, how they are bound to each other now, yet not as master and servant, and not as husband and wife.

Yet there are still times when Altaïr would order her, and she still finds herself asking for his permissions, still resuming their status as master and servant. There is no stability in this relationship, there is no guarantee that he won't marry another woman -

But then again, there is no guarantee that both of them will still live for another day.

He parts with a chuckle, "Anymore longer than that, and i'll take you right here on this roof, Ambra."

She laughs, shaking her head in disbelief, "You're truly insatiable."

They resume sitting next to each other, void of playful touch, as they are immersed in the view Sis is offering. Just a few more days, she thinks to herself, focusing her gaze towards the blurry edge of the city, where she cannot see the details clearly. She imagines what would happen once they have reached Tarsus and killed Jaqq. Will it be easy or difficult? Will Sofi still be there? What would she think of her? Ambra knows she certainly will cry aloud upon meeting her again.

But those are the good possibilities. What of the bad ones?

What if Sofi has died or sold away somewhere else? What if Jaqq has prepared an ambush in the mill - and it will result in either her death or Altaïr's or even the brethren. She glances at Altaïr, finding him observing the rooftops silently. As much as she knows that he is skillful, she still fears of one thing, that her dream could come true. Who can say that there won't be more guards in the mill? What if it ends up just like what she fears - Altaïr dying on the bottom of the staircase, lined up with her friends' mutilated bodies, and Jaqq piercing her throat with his ivory sword.

But if that is the case, won't it be wonderful to die with her friends and him? After all, they will be reunited again, won't they? Though the last thing she wishes is death, she wishes it will come swiftly and painlessly to them.

She swallows the lump in her throat and forces herself to smile, tugging on Altaïr's ambrace. The action earns his attention, and he turns to look at her, dropping his guard for a bit. "Hmm?" He silently asks.

It is too bad that the sunlight cannot illuminate the beauty that is his eyes. She straightens herself up to whisper, forcefully tearing through her own shyness, "May i sleep with you tonight?"

There is an honest look of surprise in his face, but the smirk playing on the corner of his lips is an answer to her. "That's one way to initiate sex."

At least i asked... She purses her lips, feeling the blush betraying her cheeks. "Well...?"

He chuckles, "We have all night. By all means, do what you can to me."

He has turned his head away to look at the city again. She lets out a sigh, still looking at him, taking notes of his appearance. If tomorrow they will be heading to Tarsus, the last thing she needs is reasssurance that she has done enough - should one of them dies, at least there is something to remember. She turns her head away to wipe the tears pooling in her eyes.

 

Disrespecting the rafiq is something an assassin should not do under the roof of the bureau. This...intimacy is a form of disrespectful. Yet Altaïr believes there is no better place in the city to take Ambra properly without raising a few alarms. His first thought was the rooftop garden - an idea that he kicked aside for being too out in the open. Then the second idea was the top of the tower, which is nearly impossible, with the current cold weather that could be unbearable. Another idea is to take her in the bathhouse, yet the cold water only makes it uncomfortable.

So the meditation room it is.

Against his own comfort, the incense is burning to mask the smell. In the far corner of the meditation room where it is away from the joined walls of the sleeping quarters, sitting down against the wall, he kneads Ambra's hips almost tightly. She is moving on her own on his lap, with mouth agape as she breathes out her moaning, hands clenching his shoulders for support. Her shallow pace only serves to tease him, though he knows she is unable to sink fully into him without moaning loudly, he wants more.

He wraps his hands around her body to pull her flush against him. Their clothed bodies hinder their movements, despite having discarding their belts and armbraces, and she has removed her trousers. He holds her down, pushing her to impale her down to his manhood. She groans, biting the side of his hood, and he sighs upon feeling her womanhood clenching tightly.

"Hush..." He whispers, fingers undoing her holster.

"It's too deep..." She manages through clenched teeth.

"Breathe, Ambra." He discards her holster away, now pulling onto her hood. The material plops on the carpet. He threads his fingers through her hair, lips kissing the side of her neck, which only makes her even more tensed.

He feels her trying to relax, an effort that causes her to shudder and sigh shakily. Her arms are wrapped around his neck almost tightly, fingers holding onto the back of his holster, and she is panting. He closes his eyes to enjoy the feeling of her.

How surprising for him that she has the initiative to ask for sex. Against his preference to have her under him, she insists to be on top - another change that interests him. He is about to lift her bottom up, to begin a pace for his straining manhood, "N-no - Altaïr -" she whimpers.

He stops, "If you're not going to move, i'll do the moving."

She shakes her head, "Wait - please..."

The way that she holds him close and the small choke of breath from her alert him. He pulls her away, finding her holding tightly to his torso. "Ambra," he calls sternly, tugging her arms off of him. She insists on holding onto him, almost suffocatingly. Another method then...

He takes hold of her bottom and begins to circle her hips - ah, there she is - he chuckles victoriously as she throws her head back as a response, mouth agape to breathe out her moaning. He repeats the motion again, and she bites her bottom lip before a whimper can escape. He nips at her neck, teeth assaulting her pulse point, tongue swiping now and then. The action sends her bucking in response, whimpering, clenching.

Their intimate activity gradually comes to an end with her finally moving on her own. How lustful she looks, with parted lips and blushing cheeks, and the kisses they share - her almost audible moan that he swallows as she reaches her bliss. The grunting that he gives as he reaches his limit, manhood twitching deep inside her spasming walls. And she looks at him with those emerald green eyes, glinting in the dim meditation room, with her hands cupping his jaw.

Her next kisses feel gentle, as if she is savoring the taste of his lips. It feels foreign to him, yet he pays no mind as he slides her off of himself, intending to clean the proof of their lovemaking quickly before falling asleep. "Come on now." He chuckles against her lips.

She pouts as they part, but she scoots away nonetheless. Her stained womanhood is quickly cleaned up with a wet rag, as it is to his manhood. He hands her her trousers, watching with amusement at her attempt to slide it on with shaky thighs.

It is even more surprising for him when they lie down to sleep, that she props herself up to kiss him again. He frowns, scoffing, "What now? Surely you've felt satisfied?"

She pokes his side, and he chuckles. "I'm just...kissing you."

He tugs her to lie down again, "Rest for now. We have plenty of time when we return to Masyaf."

"If."

"What was that?" He knows what he hears, but finding it to be startling. "You're saying we won't make it back to Masyaf?"

She sighs, nuzzling his side, "I didn't mean to doubt you. It's..." She moves to sit up, but turning around to face him. He can see her frowning, expression turns into worry and seriousness, with a clear hint of doubt in her eyes. "You said it yourself that death is a part of this life, and i should be at peace with however and whenever it comes. And i know you said to never doubt yourself or mine, to have faith, to not worry - but, Altaïr, i'm terrified."

He sits up, mind digesting her words carefully, "Terrified? Of Jaqq?"

"Of losing -" she stops and purses her lips. The cheeks are ablaze in deep red hue as she continues, "Of losing you."

He frowns, "Being killed in mission is an honorable death, Ambra, you know that. Besides -"

She shakes her head, "What of me? We're still bound as master and servant - i'll be a servant that fails in protecting her master."

The words cause him to honestly flinch, "Ambra -"

"What if i truly die this time? I'd feel horrible for abandoning my duty to you - i'm just -" she sighs deeply, "I'm - i'm sorry. I've been trying to make this moment as enjoyable as it can be, yet -"

His eyebrows raise in realization. Too late to his knowledge, but this is a new perspective he never bothers to care for before. For him, a mission only has two outcomes; successful or failure. Whatever the outcome is, what matters is that the Brotherhood remains unknown to the world. Even though he knows the weight of losing a brethren, it is a feeling that is known afterwards, never beforehand. Yet now, hearing Ambra's stuttering explanation, somehow makes him realize why she initiated sex, why she chose the position, why she held onto him tightly, and why she acts differently tonight.

And to understand fully the threat this mission possesses makes him recognize the same feeling he felt months ago, when he rode to fetch her from Acre, when he found her barely alive. That dreadful feeling of losing someone, the worry, the anxiety -

She was trying to make peace with him in case she dies first.

Altaïr chuckles, hand moving to ruffle her hair, "I only have one thing to say."

Her eyebrows raise slightly, "What is it?"

"Seeing how dangerous the future must be in your eyes, and the potential threat that may come soon, it's impossible to ensure either yours or my safety. But trust me, and i will try and secure our lives." He runs his hand to her nape, holding her there.

"You know i trust you, Altaïr." She mutters.

"Good. Then i will tell you this." He looks at her eyes, finding her emerald ones locking with his golden orbs. "This is the most important order and reminder that i give to you. I expect no hesitation and no disagreement. As your master, i order you this."

He watches as her eyes widening and the heartbeat picks up slightly.

"Stay with me." He says. "No matter the circumstances, whether we are in the fortress or on a mission, remind yourself that you must return alive to me. Do you understand?"

Her lips are pursing before she opens them to reply, "Yes, Altaïr."

"No more reckless action, no matter how close the distance is or how outnumbered a target may be, never underestimate a mission. As an instructor, your death may only take a few days to mourn, but as your lover -"

She jumps at the word, sending her cheeks to be deep red, and her lips are trying hard not to smile. He laughs quietly.

"As your lover," he repeats slowly, placing his forehead against hers, "losing you is the last thing i wish to happen."

He feels her pulling him for a kiss, and he complies, finding her lips eager to touch his. Her hand moves to carress his jaw. "You're not going to lose me." She huffs against the curve of his lips.

"Good," he purrs, "there's still many years ahead of us, Ambra."


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of abuse.

Tarsus is never a home to Ambra. Even right now, as she paces her horse lightly beside Altaïr, accompanied by a handful of brethren - including Sofyan and Hamzah - she finds herself unable to relax. There is a nauseating feeling in her stomach that makes her uncomfortable, unable to relax, especially as they are passing through the market.

It is terrifying how a glimpse of the busy market manages to send her back to her fifteen-year-old self. She remembers running through the crowd, parting with shaky hands, heartbeat rising unsteadily, as she tried to find a way to escape Tarsus. No, focus, Ambra, she reminds herself. She looks around to ground herself to reality, finding Altaïr still riding beside her, and Hamzah riding on the other side. I'm safe, she tells herself constantly.

The mill will be a few hours away now.

Her throat feels dry all of the sudden, and despite the cold air, she is sweating profusely. Altaïr is moving ahead to lead the group, and his place is refilled by one of the brethren - a former student of Labib. She glances to Hamzah, "Hamzah."

"Yes?" Hamzah responds, though his eyes are not looking at her.

"We're getting close to the mill." She informs.

This time, Hamzah looks at her. "How close exactly?"

"Two or three hours away, i suppose. We shouldn't get too close."

"Hey," he lowers his voice, "calm down. We've scouted the surrounding area before. Unless something changed, we'll be stopping by the river."

The river. Perhaps the only other path in and out of the mill, leading straight to the sea, yet heavily guarded. She remembers seeing newly arrived slaves from the big ships, chained and bound, walking down the dock to stand in line on the field. It was never a good thing when new slaves arrive that way - they could mean runaway slaves in need of discipline. Many died or put into a form of entertainment for the guards, very few became docile and sent away to be sold again.

Sofi reminded her not to walk too close to the riverside, for there could be crocodiles ready to snatch unsuspectingly from under the murky water. None had died by them, no, but she knew where the slavers liked to throw dead slaves away. It was even said that the crocodiles can smell which one is a slave and which is not. Ambra wonders if it is still the same - the buildings and the fields, the walls, the spotters, the guards, and the big house of Jaqq.

"There's..." She trails off, but goes unnoticed by Hamzah. She clears her throat to start again. "The river has crocodiles, no?"

Hamzah frowns, "No, not to my knowledge. Wait, are there crocodiles in the river?"

She shrugs, "To my knowledge, yes. I've never seen them personally, though..."

Hamzah chuckles nervously, "That makes the two of us, and i have no intention to change that."

As they are taking a path, Ambra cannot help but recalling the moments of her escape. Hidden in a cart heading to the market, unable to see the surrounding clearly, she remembers being shaken so much by the uneven ground. The smell of freshly cut wheat, the dusty texture of grain sacks, as she tried to keep hidden behind produces. Now, three years after escaping the hell, she finds herself returning there again. Any sane person would rather run away forever than facing it twice.

But, truly, back then she was so sure she would kill Jaqq, right? Now here she is, riding with the assassins, with Jaqq marked for death. It seems almost unreal. She can smell the early signs of snow and the familiar fresh water - and she is certain Sofi will still be there.

They are heading to a stop by the river. Hamzah is riding forward to Altaïr, and his place is taken over by another assassin. "Altaïr, wait!" Hamzah says.

Ambra can see Altaïr stopping his horse, leading the others to stop as well. "What's the matter?" He asks.

"The river. Ambra mentioned of crocodiles in the river." Hamzah informs.

Altaïr glances at Ambra, before casting his gaze to the water. He stares at it for a while, as if observing - and despite the murkiness, he still observes it as if he can see through it. "It's safe." He says, turning back to the group. "If neither of you trust my words, then do whatever you believe is safe."

She catches him nodding at her, a silent gesture to come to him. Obediently, she rides past the brethren, stopping her horse once she is right by Altaïr. "Yes?"

He steps down from his horse, so she does as well. "How many entrance does the mill have?" He asks while guiding the horse to be tied by the tree with the others.

She leads her horse to another tree, "One main entrance for carriages and carts," she frowns, trying to remember. "The river can be counted as an entrance. There is a dock in the mill. If...if i'm not mistaken, there's another entrance by the barrack, but i'm not sure of the exact location." She follows Altaïr to sit down on a protruding rock. "Why do you ask? The briefing from the brethren was complete, right?"

"Their observation is from outside the mill. Yours is from the inside." He replies, hand moving to grab a small waterskin from one of his pouches. He takes a few gulps out of it before handing it to her. "What of the walls?"

"Tall." She replies shortly before taking a drink from his waterskin. "There are some towers for the spotters in the field too. I don't think it's safe to scale the wall."

Altaïr accepts his waterskin and places it back into his pouch, "Are there archers?"

Ambra shrugs, "Maybe? I've only seen the guards stationed on the ground, never the ones on the towers." She glances at him, "Altaïr, even if we manage to enter the mill, there's no guarantee that J-Jaqq will be there."

"He will be." Sofyan chimes in from a nearby tree stump. "The last report from our informant mentions that Jaqq will be having a meeting with associates from Constantinople tomorrow, though it's unsure of what time."

Ambra frowns, more associates? When associates came to visit the mill, it usually means they were to take some slaves away to be sold - oh Allah, she fears to imagine what type of slaves will be taken away. "Do we have to kill the associates as well?" She asks.

"Al-Mu'alim's briefing says to tie all loose ends. If it's to avoid someone taking control after Jaqq, then safe to say we are to kill every known associates and save the slaves." Altaïr replies, arms crossing over his chest.

"But we have no information yet on the number of the associates." Sofyan says.

"Leave that to me. All of you should follow the plan. Make sure Jaqq doesn't leave the area - where's Hamzah?" Altaïr frowns.

"Securing the area with Kamal. Should i get him?" One of the brethren replies.

"No need. Ambra," Altaïr turns to Ambra, whose eyebrows shoot up to her forehead in surprise, "you're to stay close to Hamzah."

This time Ambra frowns deeply, "But -"

"His senses are much sharper than yours, so is his accuracy. Let the brethren move in to take down the guards. You should focus on Jaqq only." Altaïr cuts her off.

She clenches her teeth to avoid responding to his honesty. As much as she wants to be in the front line to take down the guards as well, she has to admit that she still lacks many things. Staying back with Hamzah only means she has to watch him killing guards with the crossbow - at least he gets to kill... She nods under Altaïr's scrutiny.

"Have you any further questions or information?" Altaïr asks.

"Yes," one of the brethren says, stepping forward. "How do we know which one is Jaqq? We could accidentally kill him."

"He's -" Ambra starts hesitantly, "he's a big man. He always carries an ivory cane where he keeps his sword, and he is always dressed in the softest garments - and - and not one slave will look at him."

The assassin nods, "If he hasn't changed how he dressed..."

"The last time i saw him was three years ago, what do you expect?" Ambra barks, but quickly clears her throat, "I'm sor-"

Altaïr scoffs loudly beside her, "You idiotic lots. Has the journey here slowed your thoughts as well? In case you forget, let me remind you of the plan. I will spot the associates before you make the kills. Ambra will stay with Hamzah until it's clear to kill Jaqq. If there's a change of plan, split into two groups and finish the problem. Is that so difficult to grasp?"

The brethren are silent as they shake their heads almost in unison.

"Good. Rest for now. We'll proceed in a few hours."

Ambra watches as Altaïr excuses himself from the group to head to the river. She decides to follow him, feeling the harsh stare from some of the brethren to only worsen her mood. She should have gotten used to it, to the way some of the brethren look at her, as if she does not belong there. The talk of the fortress is that she has easier life than them, being Altaïr's servant, and that she gains her rank out of his pity. Though there are more brethren who think of her as an equal, the talk still gets to her, especially since the start of their intimate activity.

Altaïr notices her footsteps and turns to look at her, "What is it now?"

She approaches him, "Respectfully, Altaïr, why should i stay behind with Hamzah?"

He frowns, "You're saying you wish to step ahead with the brethren? You'll be back in the mill, inside the same place of the man you fear for life, and you don't think there is going to be a problem?"

"I don't think it's fair that the brethren get to kill to clear the path to Jaqq, while i stay behind safely." She retorts. "I know the mill better, i can help killing the guards."

"Clear your mind, Ambra, you're clouded by hatred."

She clenches her hands. "I'm not. I just wish you to reconsider your decision, and allow me to fight fairly."

She knows once he has reached a conclusion, it is difficult to tell him otherwise. But it does not hurt to try. Does he not want her to not be a burden? Staying behind only makes it clear that she is a weakness to the Brotherhood.

Altaïr sighs, "You're placed with Hamzah for a reason. His injury has disabled him from fighting quickly in close combat. On another side, i believe his accuracy shouldn't be questioned anymore. So," he looks at her, less stern than before, "you will complement each other, seeing how you lack accuracy and yet to master throwing knives. Is that to your satisfaction?"

She purses her lips. He is right - true, that Hamzah can provide with attacks against archers should there any, and that she can attack any nearby enemies. But i want to be in the front line... She drops her gaze to the ground, thinking, though she knows she cannot just leave Hamzah to defend himself while she is moving ahead with the others.

"What about you?" She looks back at him.

There is a small smile on the corner of his scarred lips, "You won't be able to catch up with me. Tell me, do you still trust me?" He suddenly asks.

"You know i do, Altaïr." She sighs, a bit discouraged from the honesty.

"Then don't hesitate. Infiltrating an area is something i've done for years. When i call the strategy, you better believe that it's for the best. I appreciate you for speaking your mind, but," he lowers his voice, "be mindful of the ranks, Ambra. It's expected that the higher ranked will order you around. But Hamzah is too prideful to ask for help."

"Just like a certain person." She quips with a tight smile.

He chuckles at her, "Meditate and take a rest. We'll begin the mission when night falls."

 

No matter how many times Altaïr observes the walls of the mill, he finds it unsuitable as an entrance. He has tried looking from the highest tree, yet only managed to find several archers stationed on the walls - Ambra was right. He even saw the towers inside the mill, and even though they are not as tall as the walls, the archers and spotters stationed there already outnumber the assassins.

His observation leads him to the end of the walls, by the river. Despite Hamzah's warning of crocodiles, his focus never lies, and he finds none lurking below the water. An entrance through the river perhaps - he quickly stomps on the idea as it proves to be foolish to swim and emerge with wet attire.

Strange. He finds sails of ships jutting out from behind the walls, presumably from the dock. There are three ships, he guesses, and he wonders if the associates travel through the sea as well. It can't be good, he frowns, the number of the guards have been doubled already if the ships crew are counted too.

Night is approaching, and his patience grows thin. Is there other entrance? Didn't Ambra say there was one by the barrack - wherever it is? What if it is on the other side of the mill? He curses inwardly.

Altaïr heads back to the small makeshift camp of the brethren. They are meditating, some are sharpening their blades. Hamzah is counting his bolts by the tree - three dozens, if he carries the standard supply. Altaïr approaches him.

"How good are you with that?" He asks, glancing at his crossbow.

Hamzah smiles, "Give me a target, and i won't disappoint you."

Lethal it is, then. "I may need you to cover the others to secure an entrance." Altaïr motions for him to follow, and he does. He leads Hamzah towards the end of the walls, only to observe from behind the trees. "We may have to kill the guards on the walls if we want to get inside the mill. I need you to keep an eye up there," he points up to a tree, "while the brethren clear the walls."

The plan seems simpler in his head - either that, or the brethren are not as quick as he expects them to be. After explaining twice, he watches as they take their place by the walls, pressed up against the stones to avoid detection. Hamzah is up on a tree with Ambra stationed on the ground. Altaïr himself is right by the brethren, has been shifting his focus to keep track of the red hues of the guards. He motions at the brethren to make more space, thankfully they do - now the wait.

Hamzah gives a signal, meaning that the guards are aligned with some of the brethren by the walls. Altaïr passes the signal, and he begins to climb up the walls, swiftly reaching up with unsheathed hidden blade, burying it into the neck of unsuspecting target. He pulls the dying guard down the walls with him, and as carefully as he can, sets him on the ground to finish the kill.

He watches as Hamzah climbs down the tree and lands beside Ambra. They make their way towards him, where he prepares to launch Hamzah up the wall, while the brethren already make their way up again in no time. Hamzah manages to pull himself up with a small grunt, while Ambra already runs up the wall beside him. Altaïr follows closely.

 

Now that they have made their entry into the mill, Ambra finds the familiar surrounding to be gut-wrenching. It is strange, how she still remembers which path leads where, and how her body automatically faces the barn where she used to sleep with her friends. She feels a hand lightly touches her arm, "Where to now?" Altaïr asks.

She looks around, "This one leads to the barn for slaves," she points to the path in front of her, "that one leads to the big house and the farm," she gestures to another path on the right, "you'll find more path along the way, but the big house is just after the woods."

Altaïr squints as he looks around, though he lingers at the ships on the dock. "You three," he points at three brethren secluded in the bush. They make their way to him quickly, frowning. "Each of you go search the ships for information. You may kill the guards or the crew that threaten your life, but never raise an alarm."

They silently nod and begin to move. Ambra's attention turns to the ships, registering the flags on the tallest masts, and she wonders who exactly came to the mill tonight. A hand lightly tugs on her sleeve, and she finds Hamzah looking at her, "With me now, Ambra."

She glances at Altaïr, but he has made his move towards the path leading to the big house. Hamzah tugs her sleeve again, and she decides to follow him, moving towards the same destination but from outside the path.

It feels different, as she threads through the bushes and trees, to be here and be alert of everything. Her training as an assassin somehow enables her to be aware of her surrounding, more than she used to be. That, and the fact that Hamzah is practically within an arm's reach beside her. Knowing him, he is almost similar to Altaïr, with heightened sense and sharp eyes, and she finds herself stepping closer to the big house with more confidence.

What awaits there? Who or what will greet them? Under the shadow of the trees, she can see the brethren moving quickly and silently, Altaïr is on the lead - tall figure fluently moves through darkness with ease. He slows down all of the sudden, only to motion towards one direction, raised fingers telling how many guards needed to be kill there. The brethren make their way to obey his silent command. Soon killing and dragging the lifeless bodies of the guards back into the shadow. Then they keep on moving.

The path is nearing its end, but not the woods. Ambra inhales sharply upon feeling the familiarity - how dreadful it was to be called into the big house, even for that one time only. She glances at the trees, recalling which of them were used to tie up the slaves to be lashed - oh Allah - her hands become cold all of the sudden.

Altaïr stops the group at the edge of the woods, now signalling the brethren to split into two groups to cover more grounds. Panting, Ambra decides to stand behind Hamzah, keeping her line of sight away from the big house, at least until her heart is calm enough. She focuses herself to Hamzah's back, to the crossbow over his dagger holster, to the bolts he carries, to the handle of his dagger. Just a few more moments, Ambra, she tells herself. A few more moments and Jaqq will be dead...


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention and depiction of abuse.

The mill is bigger than Altaïr expects. Even as he is shifting his focus, he cannot see the edge of the mill, where it starts and where it ends. The big house of Jaqq is impressive in size, almost the size of the castle of Masyaf, with stone walls and pillars, and polished floor. He catches a sight of many red hues around and inside the house, only a glimpse from the windows. This is quite difficult... He admits.

Signalling for the brethren to approach from different angles, Altaïr watches the situation more intently. The best thing to do right now is to gain the high ground - he silently wishes the towers surrounding the big house are not difficult to capture. He makes his way to the nearest tower, a signal for others to make a move, and albeit dangerously, he climbs up swiftly.

Two guards, archers, are oblivious to his arrival, both talking to each other in Armenian. Altaïr uses the moment to kill them quickly, hidden blade to one archer, a dagger for the other. They gasp upon the contact, yet neither manage to do anything in return, as he finishes their lives and lets them fall to his feet with a thud. He looks at the crossbow they carry, and decides to grab one for himself, seeing how they have no use for it anymore.

Now standing lowly on the tower, he observes how successful the brethren are at taking over other towers. What remains now is infiltrating the big house - he watches the guards patrolling on the roof. Even if he and the brethren try to kill them by crossbows, they will not die instantly. They could fall down below and alert everyone. He grits his teeth, another close combat then...

 

Ambra feels a bit restless with each passing moment. Even as she is positioned on top of the tower overlooking the entrance of the big house, even as Hamzah standing nearby with crossbow readied, the growing anxiety causes her heart to beat quicker. She inhales deeply, crouching, face peeking from the tower's barrier.

"Nervous?" Hamzah asks, not even looking away from his aim.

"A bit." She mutters, huffing the dust on the stone wall as she does so.

"Take your time. I'll tell you when we need to move." He replies calmly.

She slumps down to the floor completely, sitting with crossed legs, trying to regulate her breathing. What is wrong with me? Her stomach feels sick when the images of her life in the mill comes flashing by one by one. Closing her eyes, she tries to meditate, even just for a while. Please calm down, she tells herself. This is supposed to be the big day that she has been waiting for - yet why is it so hard to move?

"Hey, Ambra." Hamzah calls suddenly, startling her.

"Yes?" She replies shakily.

"Do you remember when we used to practice wall climbing together?" He asks.

She looks up at him, "Yes. You were always upset whenever it was your turn to keep an eye on me."

He chuckles, "Yes, it was either that or facing Altaïr's anger."

She smiles, remembering the low groan of protest that Hamzah usually let out whenever he had to climb by her. The numerous sigh he heaved whenever she had to stop to regain her strength. He would encourage her to keep on going, pushing her, almost pulling onto the back of her belt so that she would start climbing up again. "You used to call me 'weak'." She says, remembering.

"I did." He replies. "I think it was before you earned the hidden blade, because i remember telling you -"

"'For having ten fingers, you're not strong enough'." She finishes his sentence, laughing quietly. "Even afterwards, you still called me weak. At least now i get to keep an eye on you."

"I can defend myself, thank you." He scoffs, attitude so similar to Altaïr.

There is a bit of silence, and Ambra decides to sit up and peek from between the barriers. The night feels eerily quiet, spare for the muffled chattering coming from the big house, and the rustling of the leaves of the trees. She finds Altaïr on top of the house's roof, already killing guards, while two brethren following closely to dispose the bodies. How agile... It is rare for her to see him in full assassin mode - and even though her speculation is true, that his skillfulness is something to never be doubted, she still finds the sight of him gliding on the roof to be wonderful.

"I take it you and Altaïr have been married?" The sudden remark from Hamzah catches her off guard, that she turns her head so quickly to him that she swears she has pulled a muscle. Hamzah glances at her briefly before resuming the aim, "not my place, but it's been what - two years?"

"Three - no, we're not...married." She quickly replies.

"Ah." He clears his throat. "Then what was the cedar oil for?"

"Oh - it's...uh...ointment." she replies too fast, "he... For massage..."

Hamzah scoffs, sounding more like a lighthearted chuckle, "Sorry - curious, you know? I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but we received news from Edessa that you slept with Altaïr to gain your ranks - rest assure, i believe you more."

That rafiq - Ambra clenches her teeth upon remembering the rafiq of Edessa, the one that mocked her since her arrival with Malik, the same one that made the brethren of Edessa difficult to work with. She purses her lips, "I did no such thing, and neither did Altaïr. You know him longer, Hamzah, you know how honorable he is."

"I know, which is why i believe you." Hamzah replies, "even if it's true, i'd still believe you, Ambra."

"Hey -" Ambra smacks the back of his knee again, causing him to grin.

"Tonight will be remembered," he says quietly, "as a reminder that anything's possible. Don't get me wrong, if i never said it, it does not mean i'm against it or supporting it - but i doubted you, Ambra, we all did."

She nods, "I'm aware."

"You know of my past - as an orphan, i never had a care for whatever happened around me, after all i could die any moment. Even as an assassin, even when the brethren said i was gifted with this accuracy - even as you came and joined as a sister. I never complained because i felt no need to." He shrugs, chuckling, "Perhaps it was for the best. If you told me that in the course of three years you will earn your revenge, i would never believe you."

She smiles a bit at him, "You do care, you know? Else you won't follow Sofyan being sent to Sis."

"Someone has to keep him in line - look at him," Hamzah nods ahead towards another tower, where Sofyan is crouching with the enemy's crossbow readied and aimed, "still horrible posture and reckless defense. He'd hurt himself with that thing."

Ambra laughs quietly, "By Allah, i miss you two..."

Hamzah hums in acknowledgement, "By now have you calmed down yet?"

She nods, "I think so." She stands up, slightly hunched down to avoid detection. On the roof of the big house, Altaïr and the brethren have made a clear sweep of the guards. He gives a signal for others to approach. "Hamzah -"

"Yes." He returns the crossbow back to his holster, unloaded, and turns to her. There is a pause as he looks at her, and she finds herself quiet under his gaze. "Whatever doubt you have in mind, this is not the time for it, sister. You're not alone this time."

And she watches as Hamzah climbs down the tower hurriedly, her mind still registering his words. She blinks twice as she understands his meaning. The white hooded brethren moving in the darkness, the silence of their movement, and the soft thudding of their boots - is this not what she dreamed of for years? That assassins will come and kill Jaqq to save her and her friends?

Only this time, she is not the timid slave curling in the barn, dreaming for the impossible. This time, she is outside of it, accompanied, and ready to make that dream come true.

 

Altaïr regulates his breathing on the roof of the big house. The guards are easy to handle, he concludes, but he is yet to find more challenging barriers. He is certain there will be, since Templars are here, there should at least be some knights or cavalaries.

He has not dared to shift his focus yet. There is something that bothers his senses as he stepped on the roof - could be incense, he has no idea. He has to rely on his own senses for now, not trusting his gift. Could it be he is losing it? By Allah, i hope not...

Hamzah arrives on the roof with a bit of difficulty, and Ambra is just behind him, pushing him up by the back of his belt. Altaïr sighs in relief for finding them still obeying his order. Now to wait for -

That laughter.

Altaïr feels his heart drops to the pit of his stomach as that familiar laughter is heard. Though muffled, he still remembers it, who owns it - and by Allah, he finds himself weak at that simple sound.

"There's a woman in the crowd." One of the brethren says, addressing the laughter.

Altaïr turns his gaze to Ambra, focus shifting against his restraint, and again, he finds her golden hue fading. What is wrong with me? The same thing happened when he fetched her from Edessa, when he had to ride beside the mysterious woman he should have killed long ago - the name he dreads to remember, but the image of her has already formed in his mind, like a smoke out of a fire.

Focus, you idiot, he mentally kicks himself. This mission can be in jeopardy if he loses himself over a woman. The plan must go on. He gestures the brethren to make a move to infiltrate the big house, to enter from any possible entrance, and wait and hide for his next order. He watches as one by one, they head towards the closed windows, carefully prying the latches open, while himself is still standing on the roof.

"Hamzah, go to the tower by the entrance and keep an eye for those who gets away." He orders before the former student can make a move.

"Yes, Altaïr." Hamzah replies, making a move to climb down the big house.

Ambra is ready to follow him, but Altaïr grabs her by the upper arm and yanks her to him. The startled look on her face is enough question, even more so as he presses her back towards a chimney, "Altaïr," she calls quietly.

"Eyes on me." He mutters, trying to ground himself to reality by looking into her emerald orbs. They look almost dark in this light, and it is not helping his predicament at all. He grunts, "Something's wrong."

"What is?" She hushly asks, hands clenching onto his holster, eyes widening.

"In the house. I'm not one to fully believe in black magic, but if there is any, it's happening right now."

"What are you feeling?" She takes hold of his jaw, and he hisses lowly. "Altaïr -"

"Tell me your name. Quickly." He drops his forehead to the wall behind her, huffing, as a sudden heaviness is pounding in his head.

"A-ambra. My name is Ambra." She quickly says.

In his mind, the venomous image of Adha is dancing wildly. With sultry gaze, calling out to him. He shakes off the imagination, thoroughly confused as to how this happens and why. The touch of Ambra's hand sends him shuddering, as his mind tries to deceive him to believe it is of Adha's.

He grunts as suddenly that same hand is tugging onto the hair on the back of his head, sending him shuddering. "My name is Ambra. You are Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad -"

He huffs, dropping his head to her shoulder, inhaling the smell of her tunic and her sweat. The headache worsens, and he finds his hands clenching around something soft, sending her whimpering - realizing he has a deathgrip around her upper arms.

"We've lived together for three years in your room. You were assigned as my instructor, and i was given to you as your servant. Altaïr -" she hisses, but hides it as she nuzzles his ear. "A few months ago, you saved me from dying. Had i know our feelings are mutual, i would not cause you h-harm - don't bite -"

Did i do that? He opens his mouth that has been latching itself onto her clothed shoulder unconsciously. The pounding feels unbearable, that he finds himself sweating from holding it together. This is black magic, he concludes. "Keep talking." He manages through gritted teeth, trying to keep conscious.

Ambra kneads the back of his head, "I... Remember when you took me to the cave to train? I thought you were going to kill me -" he scoffs, " - t-then after you drowned me and brought me back, do you remember the scenery? It was nearing sunset, and..."

And the explanation tumbles out of Ambra's mouth seems vivid in his mind, that he finds himself unconsciously inhaling the fragmented smell of the incoming rain. Ambra coughing out water on his lap, grabbing tightly onto himself, and he kept his eyes on the scenery. Lips idly kissing the side of her hood when she rested on his shoulder. He felt her breathing. He felt her alive, still trusting him. He still remembers the look in her eyes when she lied there in the bottom of the river, held down by him. The emerald greens were open, gently looking at him, as if accepting her fate.

"...and you told me to be yours, but i'm already yours - Altaïr, i'm always yours." Her voice cracks a bit, and her hold becomes an embrace. "You said to stay with you, so please be fair, and do the same to me. Altaïr -"  
He opens his eyes.

A deep, satisfied sigh, is all that he can muster. God - his head has never felt this light before. He grunts, arms wrapping around Ambra's waist, inhaling her familiar scent. He pushes himself to shift his focus, sighing once again in relief, as he finds her golden hue in his embrace.

"It's getting better now," he informs her.

She pulls onto his hair, pulling his head away, and he obliges. She takes hold of his jaw, almost tightly, and he registers the look on her face. The wet eyes, and the red nose, and the everlasting look of worry. "Are you alright?"

"The headache has subsided at least, though i'm still unsure of what triggered it." He glances around. Surely the brethren are wondering where he and she is right now. "We have to go -"

He feels her raising herself on her toes, hands pulling onto the edge of his hood, pulling himself to her. The kiss feels hurried, less gentle, more like demanding. She pulls away as quickly as it happens, blushing deeply, a contrast against her eyes. "Please be more careful." She blurts out almost inaudibly.

He smirks at her, but quickly lets her go, as his trained ears catch the faint sound of scrapping climbing up the wall. He turns around at the same time as one of the brethren climbs up, panting, "Altaïr -" he calls even before he stands on the roof.

Altaïr grabs the young assassin by the holster, pulling him to safety, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Here," he taps on the satchel that he carries, "This...what we gathered from the ships in the dock. They are Templars, all three of them. We didn't have time to read all of these, but we believe they are searching for something." He pulls out a leatherbound book from the satchel, "i skimmed through the captain's journal. They are looking for some kind of treasure, though unsure of what it is."

"Keep it with you for now. Where are your brethren?" Altaïr asks.

"They're with Hamzah on the tower - he saw us on the way here, and said to report to you here." The assassin replies, trying to regulate his breathing.

"Stay with Hamzah and your brethren, and protect that information at all cost. If anything bad happens, return immediately to Sis, do you understand?" Altaïr orders sternly, trying to find hesitation in the young assassin's eyes.

"Yes, Altaïr." He replies, and only then Altaïr lets him go. "Oh - Hamzah said five people came out of the house. Four guards, one woman -"

Altaïr's eyes widen, "Tell me more."

"Not much. The woman wears a black burqa, dressed from top to toes, but the guards are of the Crusaders. They wear the uniform. Hamzah said they are seen heading towards the dock."

Altaïr frowns. If Adha really is here, is she tied to what happened to him? The headache and the horrible sensation? Did he come to reality because he fought against her influence, whatever it is, or because she left the premises?

Nevertheless, what is she doing here? With Crusaders - Templars, too. I should have killed her when i had the chance, he grits his teeth. The young assassin in front of him has taken his leave to return to Hamzah and the others on the tower, but Altaïr still feels curious about many things.

"Templars are on a treasure hunt, then what are they doing here?" Altaïr mutters, turning back to face Ambra, whom has been hiding behind him.

"I'm thinking they are here to take the slaves and sell them. Maybe...there are more slave markets out there..." Ambra painfully says.

"Not only that. Remember Hayyiz and his wife? The 'wife' is here."

He registers Ambra's frown, "But you said she wasn't his wife, but a prisoner?"

"I did, yes, and i found no lies as she said so." He sighs. "Her presence here is enough to mark her for death, but don't do it on your own. This is a loose end i'd tie alone."

Ambra cocks her head to the side, "No one has lied to you before."

He scoffs, "No one knows how at least. That being said, you should focus on Jaqq. Let's go."

 

The inside of the big house makes every inch of Ambra's skin tingles in fear. She feels her stomach turning simply from hearing the muffled voice of some men, echoing on the stone walls. Again, Altaïr has placed her beside Sofyan, while himself moves to the front line to get a view of what happens.

There is certainly a party, or a meeting, happening in the lower floor. A lot of unknown voices. She waits, trembling, to hear Jaqq's voice among them. Is he really here?

Altaïr gives a signal shortly, and the brethren begin to move closely. Sofyan follows as well, but shielding her, and she finds it annoying. "Sofyan," she calls in protest.

The brother smiles apologetically, but does not give her a chance to move forward beside him. From this position, slightly crouching, she can see light coming from the stairwell. The voices are getting louder and clearer. Altaïr is perched on the middle of the staircase, crouching down, eyes scanning the area that the brethren and her are unable to see yet.

Strange. A few moments ago, he was thoroughly weakened by unseen force, something that worries her deeply. He demanded her to keep talking, as if it would help with his situation, whatever it is. Her questions are stacked into confusion. Why was he the only one afflicted and by whom? Did someone target him on purpose? But how?

Cannot be from his hair - she remembers his warning to be careful of where she stores her fallen strands, as they can be used in black magic. To her knowledge, he always cuts his hair in the bathhouse of Masyaf, and he always does it on his own. Then could it be from his clothes? Is that even possible?

Altaïr raises his hand to give a signal, "Found them."

From what she is interpreting, Altaïr motions that there are six associates and the one and only Jaqq. They are surrounded by 'innocence', either courtesans or slaves. There are at least a dozen guards nearby. It still amazes her how observative he is to gather such details in a very short time.

The brethren begin to move freely to a more desirable place to attack, all but Sofyan and her, that is. One stern look from Altaïr, and Sofyan ushers Ambra to him. "Sofyan -" she hisses lowly, swatting his arm, but he does not budge.

"Order's an order, sister." He answers hushly.

She does not have time to reply, as Altaïr pulls onto her armbrace, pulling her to crouch down and observe. "Look closely." He mutters. "Is that Jaqq?"

The words that are spoken drift past her knowledge, but she recognizes that tone anywhere. The accent that rolls off the tongue, the heave of breath - she can inhale the smell of smoke and heavily spiced incense from this distance. Unknowingly, she grips the railing tightly, knuckles white from the pressure against the stone.

She cannot believe it.

Jaqq is there.

A big man with dark hair under a turban, dressed in layers of tunic and kaftan. The trusty ivory cane is clenched in one of his big hands, while the other hand is moving about in a conversation. She catches a sight of a leather whip, rolled neatly, tucked in his belt. That sight alone makes her breath hitches, stomach finally turning, memories of her days in the mill erupt at the same time, and she gags involuntarily.

She puts a hand over her mouth, suddenly feeling like she has been splashed by cold water. Altaïr looks calmer as he watches the crowd, eyes fixating onto the man she dreads. Her heart beats loudly in her ears, "Altaïr, i can't..."

The small whimper is quickly muffled by her own hand. The golden orbs of Altaïr turn to her in disbelief, "Yes, you can."

She shakes her head, trying to shake off the images - a guard pinched her cheek, "This one's pretty," he said, and Sofi came out of nowhere, smacking the guard's hand off of her.

"You stay away from her!" Sofi said.

"Then you'll take her place!" And the guard dragged Sofi by the hair, and Ambra found herself holding onto Sofi's dress, trying to save her. It was futile - and she did not know how - the next thing she knew, Sofi begged her to close her eyes.

Then the image changes, and Ambra finds herself remembering working in winter, with frostbitten fingers and toes. The coldness seeped into her bones that she trembled, and dropped a bucket of milk she was supposed to carry. It was too reckless - she begged the guards for forgiveness, that she would do any chores to remedy it, just please don't bring me to the tree!

The coldness was harsher on her naked body. Tears welled up and streamed down her face, she choked a breath as the hard cane landed on her bottom. The next one on her thigh. She cried aloud, begging, stop, stop, stop, please, i'm sorry -

The voice of Jaqq breaks her memory, and she remembers the big house. The man himself sitting across her, a smile on his dreadful face. "You've grown, Ambra." He said.

And he took his time to move, sitting next to her now, and she could smell him - and fear was all she felt, and he ran his hand to her cheek, caressing. Stay still, she reminded herself. If she moved, she'd be done for. But the slight whimper that erupted from her throat was taken as an insult, and she felt hot pain stinging her cheek, finding herself gasping in the aftermath - then Jaqq returned to caress her cheek again.

"I'm showing you compassion, so be grateful for it." He said, still with an unpleasant grin.

She feels something in her hand, and she holds onto it unconsciously. The familiar texture of the palm and the missing ring finger - she caresses the stub, eyes focusing on reality, "Altaïr..." She calls, kneading his palm.

"Take a deep breath." Altaïr instructs her to. "Whatever fear you're feeling, let it run through your finger to my hand. Breathe, Ambra."

She sighs, trembling, fingers shaking.

"What are you afraid of?" She finds herself remembering the words spoken by Altaïr during one of their free running training. She feared of falling. "At least the ground will be there to catch you. If you fail, there will only be some injuries - a broken bone, maybe, but not death. Not from this height."

And she watched him leaping forward to another rooftop, easily, swiftly. He stood there, one hand outstretched, motioning for her to come forward.

"No fear now, Ambra." He said.

She walked back a few steps, inhaling deeply, clenching her trembling hands.

"I'll catch you. Don't make me think otherwise." He impatiently said.

And she leaped forward, feeling the ground under his feet disappeared, and the air was blowing against her hood. But then the sole of her left foot met the hard ground, and it was startling, but Altaïr grabbed her by the collar of her hood and tunic, pulling her straight.

"Don't hesitate." He reminded and reminds her.

Ambra finds her shoulders relaxing all of the sudden. There is the same tingling feeling of anticipation, the same thing she felt when she was about to kill Sayyid in his camp. A feeling of reassurance, that she can do this, that this is possible. She turns to Altaïr, finding his golden orbs forever looking at her. She gives a nod.

"I'm ready."


	44. Chapter 44

The chattering of Jaqq and his associates in the room suddenly dies down, as one of the associates taps his knuckles on the thick wooden table. "My apologies to the host, but the moon is starting to get high, and perhaps - before we distract ourselves even more - we should begin the meeting."

"Impatient to return to your ship, Philippe?" Jaqq says, earning a laugh from the others.

The man named Philippe smiles, "It's better to finish the business first, then have fun later, don't you think?"

"How are we supposed to have fun when you've sent your woman away?" Another associate chimes in.

"For the last time, Audric, she's not an entertainer." Philippe protests, but still keeping a professional smile on his face. He turns to Jaqq, "On your command, of course."

Jaqq scratches his bearded chin, humming, "Then let's."

Altaïr frowns upon the language they are using, French. He genuinely thought he would be the one at disadvantage, yet now Ambra is the one confused. This is an appropriate time to attack, yet curiosity gets the best of him, as he wonders what kind of meeting is taking place here.

"Our deepest condolences for the death of your former associates, Jaqq. We were devastated when we learned of the news - and in such short time." Philippe begins.

Jaqq waves his hand dismissively, "It was a shame, true, but they were reckless to begin with. It's the merchandise i'm worried about. They were well-bred slaves."

"Our informant claimed they saw one of your slaves with distinct brand on the face. He was with the refugee fleeing from Jerusalem." Audric informs. "Unfortunately, he died to his wound before saying anything."

Jaqq sighs, dark eyes closing, "Business is getting hard now that you waged war against Salah Al-Din. Jerusalem had many potential."

"It still does." Another associate speaks. "Garnier has been set to be placed in Jerusalem. He will need a large quantity of slaves, to what purpose, we don't know yet. But knowing him, it will be beneficial to our cause."

"Are you certain, Francois?" Jaqq asks. "I can't risk losing slaves again. It takes years to groom them - a long term investment."

"You can always sell children." Audric says with a grin.

"Eight years to grow them, and they're slightly cheaper than mature slaves." Jaqq retorts. "In your land, will there be a place for this business?"

"You have no idea." Philippe chuckles.

"Young female virgin. That's the popular one." Francois adds. "You can put them out and let them work daily, by the time they are thirteen, someone will come to marry them - paying a hefty amount of money to you too."

"With the male ones, you can put them anywhere. Otherwise, sell them to the army. The better fighters they are, the higher the price." Audric adds as well.

Jaqq taps his nails on the wooden table, frowning. "Tempting offer..."

"Of course." Francois smiles.

"Leaving this place will be difficult. I built this empire from scratch." Jaqq replies thoughtfully. One hand caressing his ivory cane. "Besides-"

"We'll make a new one for you in our land, Jaqq. In fact, we need your expertise in this business." Philippe cuts him off. "No other mill has better quality of slaves but yours. Believe me, i've seen many."

"If it's about the runaway slaves, then no worries, we have eyes and ears in this land, we can find them." Audric adds.

Jaqq scoffs, "It's not the runaway slaves, it's one runaway slave."

A groan is heard from the end of the table, "You're still talking about that girl? It's been three years!"

Jaqq places his cane on the table, rendering the others to be quiet. "That girl is mine, Marceau."

The one named Marceau throws his hands up in disbelief, "Why? Because of her eyes? There are plenty of green-eyed girls in our land, Jaqq, you are free to choose!"

Jaqq taps the ivory cane, a dangerous gesture, "You came to my property and speak lowly of my slave - my property - not even knowing -" he inhales sharply, "how many miracles have you seen, Marceau? Because i watched her grow from a baby to a girl, and if you ever see her and those bright green eyes, you'd believe in miracles even more."

"With all respect, Jaqq, she's just another slave. In our land, you can breed slaves with different eyes if you wish for!"

A thump. Jaqq has smacked the table and stood up to point his finger to Marceau. "You will address her by name under this roof, you hear me? It's Ambra! Ambra!"

Altaïr glances to the side, catching Ambra flinching and lowering her head automatically upon hearing her name called. "He's not calling for you." He informs her limited French vocabulary.

"We get it, Jaqq, we get it." Philippe says calmly. "Are you still upset of what happens? She is alive, is she not?"

"Alive - she was when Rajah had her." Jaqq grunts. "The people i sent to fetch her found the camp empty, Rajah and his men are dead - blade wounds - and Ambra was nowhere to be found. The assassins could have taken her."

Audric scoffs, "Impossible."

"You're calling me a liar? Rajah's last report said that Ambra killed Sayyid, and that she was dressed in the uniform of an assassin, even equipped with the weapons." Jaqq sits back on his seat, sighing. "She is alive but defiled by the assassin. There was a bitemark on her neck."

To this, Altaïr tenses. Great. Now the brethren know... Why did he not jump out and start the attack before this conversation happens?

"Look, Jaqq," Philippe calls, voice indifferent, "whatever you wish, we'll get it done, that is a part of the agreement. We'll be glad if you would honor your side."

"Yes, of course." Jaqq grunts again. "We did not spend the whole day preparing this and that only to let it be nothing, didn't we?"

"Technically, this place will be nothing." Audric quips with a smirk.

"Funny." Jaqq chuckles and points at the man.

"Everything is as planned and prepared. We'll begin the transport immediately." Philippe says.

"And my slaves?" Jaqq asks.

"My ship is ready to sail as we speak -" Marceau replies, at the same time as a bell sounding in the distance. "Ah - that would be them."

"Good." Jaqq hums in acknowledgement. He grabs the glass on the table and raises it, a silent invitation for the associates to do the same. "For a better life." He says.

"For a better life."

She should not know, Altaïr concludes, glancing at Ambra briefly. She is still crouching, unaware of what happens, though Sofyan who is just beside her is showing a bit of restlessness. So are the brethren hiding in their respective places, waiting for a signal to strike. Yet now Altaïr is confused.

His instinct tells him to begin the assassination now and let the ship gets away. But what of the slaves? All loose ends are supposed to be tied here tonight. Letting the ship gets away will not achieve that result.

"Sofyan," he calls, and the young assassin comes forward. "Stay here with her."

"Where are you going?" Ambra protests immediately.

"Securing our exit." Altaïr blatantly lies, frowning at her. He makes a move up the stairs quickly, not wanting to face another question from her, at least not now. He heaves a sigh of relief as she obediently stays in her place - good, now there is a ship to catch...

 

"Should we wait or strike now?" Ambra hushly asks Sofyan, seeing as the order falls to him.

Sofyan shrugs, "Ah in a moment - have you really been with Altaïr?" He turns to her with an expression that she cannot read.

She turns her head away, feeling blush rising quickly to her cheeks. "It's not important now."

"It is to me." He says hushly. "How long has it been?"

"Sofyan, please -"

"Sister, you may be his servant, and that may be his right to take your body. But none of us knew this - goodness, then that time when you argued with him -"

Ambra places her hand on his arm, silencing him, forcing herself to look at him. "He did not force me, he never does. I was ready."

The answer startles him, as he raises his eyebrows at her words. "You -" he huffs quietly, blush forming on his cheeks, "that explains the cedar oil." He glances at her up and down briefly, "How-how long have you two been...?"

"I think it's something i shouldn't answer, brother." She replies, patting his armbrace before taking back her hand.

"Was it before i got sent to Sis, or after?"

"Sofyan, with all respect, it doesn't matter at this moment."

Sofyan pauses, "You're right - apologies - it was shocking - i can't exactly imagine him bedding you - that explains why he never goes to the courtesans -" he stops again. "Sorry. So," he inhales deeply, regaining his composure, "Let's begin the mission, shall we?"

Ambra huffs, "Let's."

A flick of Sofyan's hand is all it needs for the brethren to begin attacking. The muffled sound of dying guards, the thuds as their bodies hit the floor, seem loud in the hallway. Ambra watches as the associates rise to their feet, "What was that?" Says one of them.

"Assassins!" Exclaims one of the guards, moving to protect the associate. "Fall back! Fall back!"

The fight happens so quick and dirty. The brethren prove their agility, moving between blades smoothly as if threading through water. Their advances towards the associates are halted by the number of guards coming in from the hallway - as if the house is bleeding guards to protect the owner.

Ambra gasps as one of the brethren has fallen - a crossbow bolt to his back. Sofyan grits his teeth, "I'm going in."

"I'm coming with you." Ambra blurts out immediately, unsheathing her sword.

Sofyan hesitates, "Fine. But stay behind me."

She watches as Sofyan leaps down to stab an unsuspecting guard below. She'd do the same if she has the skill, but she chooses to run down the stairs quietly. Her sword meets its first target, another guard, and she takes his life by his neck.

Clangs of swords and a lot of parrying - this is a training, she assures herself, pushing herself to bury her hidden blade in the chest of another guard. One of the brethren comes by her side, pulling her behind a pillar, "Watch it, sister!" He grunts, at the same time as crossbow bolts being fired from another direction.

This is just another training.

Knives begin to be thrown towards the archers. Even the assassin beside her begins to throw towards his targets. She idly stands, panting, waiting, wondering if the knives decorating her belt are allowed to be thrown or not. Some brethren have drawn their crossbow and begin shooting at the enemies. A messy fight in the hall of the big house, between pillars and potted plants, the high ceiling that echoes every little noise, and the oil lamps swaying lightly, illuminating the bloody floor and walls.

Footsteps are heard from the opposite hall - no...

"They're behind us." The assassin beside her huffs, knocking the pillar three times to give signal to the others. A few bolts are shot from the hallway - "Curse it! We're trapped!" He hisses.

No, no, no, no, no - this is happening too fast.

Ambra glances around, finding the brethren pressing themselves back against the wall to avoid being nicked by crossbow bolts. Sofyan is looking around for a way out, eyes darting here and there in the unfamiliar surrounding. This is not how she imagines this end will be.

"Sister," the assassin calls, "go. We can clear a way for you."

She smacks his arm loudly, "This is my fight too!"

"Well your fight is going to cause all of us killed. Save yourself at least -"

She grips his holster tightly, "With respect, brother, i'm not going anywhere -"

The bolts have stopped shooting, now changed by a maniacal laughter coming from the meeting room, where the associates and Jaqq are located. A few unknown words are spoken tauntingly.

"What did he say?" She asks the assassin.

"'We got you now, assassins'." He replies, at the same time as more words are heard. "Now he said to give up and our death will be less painful." He scoffs.

Ambra peeks from behind the pillar to observe the situation. Just when the tip of her hood is visible, a bolt comes to greet and buries itself on the pillar, just a few inches away from her face. Another taunting is heard.

"Reckless." The assassin huffs. "Last chance. I'll hoist you up the pillar. Go reach the upper floor before the guards make their next move."

She bites her bottom lip, thinking. "Is there another way?"

"Unless they cease fire completely, we won't be able to make a move." The assassin says, glancing to the hallway behind him, "they're closing in."

What should i do?

 

It is reckless, but what else to do?

As soon as Altaïr steps on board on the ship, the crew begin to attack. He parries them, blade slicing through their neck, rendering them lifeless. It is impossible for him to reach the first ship that has sailed, and despite Hamzah's stubborness - the said assassin now is riding on a horse with another assassin, intending to follow the first ship - Altaïr chooses to hijack another ship and set sail.

How difficult sailing can be? Sure, he needs a few people to help, that is why two assassins are with him. The same two who he sent to infiltrate the ships beforehand. This is beyond reckless - this is madness.

He manages to subdue the situation as he places the captain under the tip of his sword. "Order your men to stand down." Altaïr commands sternly, pressing the blade tightly to the captain's neck.

"Y-yes, yes, sir." The captain stutters.

"Take the wheel and begin to sail. I want you to catch up with that ship." Altaïr nods towards the first ship that has gained distance. His eyes catch sight of Hamzah firing crossbow bolts towards the deck. He will be thoroughly impressed if the former student manages to kill anyone with such distance.

The ship he is on begins to move from the dock. Slowly, but gradually gaining speed, as the wind blows against the sails.

"Please don't kill me..." The captain stutters, hands clenching the wheel.

"Your life depends on your own." Altaïr replies, keeping his focus ahead. But his trained senses catch a small noise of a fallen crate - down below, down the deck. He gives his position to one of the young assassins, "Watch him. Keep your eyes open."

Someone else is on this ship - could be another crewmate, preparing an ambush. He heads down to the deck, opening the hatch to begin his decend. The lanterns illuminating the dark inside of the ship do not help. So he shifts his focus, and tries to find the source of the noise.

He steps into the dark hull, footsteps thudding against the thick wood. The muffled sound of water outside the ship can be heard, but his focus has helped him greatly, nulifying the sound so he can focus more on his breathing, on his surrounding.

A swish of a fabric is all he needs to make a move - turning around with unsheathed hidden blade, pushing the unknown offender behind him towards a pillar - a female yelp is all he needs to stop. Dreading to realize the person he just stops is the same person he wishes to avoid -

To kill, you idiot.

"Altaïr." The panting voice of Adha calls him. The burqa makes him unable to see her, but those eyes - He pushes his hidden blade closer to her clothed abdomen, and she grunts. "Coming to kill me finally?"

"I told you to stay away." He says.

"I did." She replies, hands resting against his shoulders, and he hisses at the contact. "My life takes me everywhere. I have no control of where it will lead me."

"You should know better than to stick with men like Hayyiz - now you're siding with the Crusaders? You know of their business and what they did to slaves."

She takes off the veil covering her face, huffing. The jet black hair is undone and messy, but falling gracefully to her shoulders, covering her neck. She still wears the intricate ornaments on her head. "I have no control of what their business is -"

"You're sealing deals for them again."

"I came to accompany Philippe, not for deals."

"Your choice of companion deals with Jaqq, a slave owner -"

"I can't control of who he is, Altaïr!" She hisses angrily. "At least with him, the consequences are not too direct -"

"What - your meddling in with their business has unknowingly caused many lives taken away. The Crusaders, by Allah, Adha! You're the enemy of this land!"

She is quiet, panting, whimpering. Tears prickling on the edge of her eyes - don't you dare, he grits his teeth.

"Then so are you. You killed Hayyiz, the man who had given me a good life, now -" she shudders, "you're going to kill Philippe. Tell me, do you enjoy taking joy out of other people's lives or is it just mine?"

He frowns at her question.

"Are you going to take my life as well now?" She raises her eyebrows, wet eyes staring at him. "Because i'm sure the object poking my stomach is not an appendage of yours."

Stab her.

I can't...

His focus shifts involuntarily, and he finds her golden hue illuminating the hull. Does it mean she is his target or not - he is confused. Does he have to kill her, or does he need her like he needs Ambra?

Ambra -

But he feels two hands clasping themselves behind his hood, pulling him in. The blinding golden hue disables him from seeing what happens, and the brief touch of the lips cause him to jump in response. Push her away, you idiot, he screams internally.

A jolt of the ship saves him, lips moving away from her, and he pushes himself away. "You're imbued with dark magic, Adha." He huffs, wiping his wet lips with his gloves hand.

"If i were going to die in the hands of a gorgeous assassin, i might as well indulge." She chuckles, bracing herself against the pillar. "Don't tell me you're not tempted, Altaïr. You haven't killed me in all these times. One would say you're in love with me."

He scoffs, "Keep your hopes to yourself."

"But that is the truth, is it not?"

He looks at her sternly, "Had i answered that question with a no, you will insist on knowing more. With a yes, it will be a lie."

"Who's lying to whom now?"

The ship jolts again, this time harder, and it causes him to fall backwards. Adha falls onto the floor with a thud, and though his instinct tells him to grab her and save her, he stops himself. A loud creak is heard, noise cracking throughout the wooden hull, as if a giant is scratching on the deck. Then, before he can assess the situation, another crack is heard and the hull splits.

Water is entering the hull almost too fast to his liking. He stands up, eyes scanning the area. "Adha!" He calls, his voice against the harsh current of the water.

His focus shifts, yet he finds no sign of her with him. Not a red hue, not even a golden one. Is she dead? His feet thread through water, trying to find her body. He did not accidentally stab her, did he? The blade is not wet with blood.

"Altaïr!" A voice calls him from above, and he looks up to find one of the brethren looking down from the hatch. "We've hit the ship! They're sinking!"

Grunting, Altaïr abandons the hull. Why should he care whether or not Adha is alive or dead? She will die anyway, either by the brethren's blade or the Templars'. Though he admits, this is the first time he genuinely wishes he will never meet her anymore - no more, his lack of understanding of what or who she is makes him wary of her true nature. A woman like her is best be avoided or killed.

Both options are, however, difficult to him.

It is on the deck where he regains his composure. The ship has crashed itself to the first one, now both ships are stuck to each other, with water filling the hulls. "Gather the crew and tie them up, then bring them over there," he orders, pointing to the closest dry land to the ship.

He helps lowering a paddle boat to the water, now waiting for the captain and the crew to go. The crew from the other ship has the same idea, so he decides to go over there and watch over them. Carefully, he runs to the front of the deck, leaping to the other ship, and with unsheathed sword, he confronts the crew.

"Please! Mercy!" The man raises his hands in defeat, knees shaking.

"So much for the Crusaders." Altaïr mutters. He registers several dead men on deck, crossbow bolts attached to their bodies - impressive, he scoffs, Hamzah truly demonstrates his accuracy.

He gathers the small number of crew, watching them paddle to the riverside, where the brethren are waiting. He sees Hamzah and another assassin on their horses, crossbows readied and aimed at the boat in case anyone tries to get away. But that is not the only thing he sees.

In the bush, he catches a glimpse of a figure standing, only to immediately runs away. His focus shifts quickly to register the stranger -

Finding golden hue fleeting as the figure takes her leave away.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of abuse and uhh a bit of gore.

"Brother, take my knives." Ambra says, handing her knives to the assassin beside her.

He hesitantly accepts, "What are you thinking?"

"I trust your ability and swiftness. You are of higher rank than me, more experienced in this - so please tell me, how much time you need to kill the archers?" She speaks quickly. Honestly, there is no time left. Her heart is pounding erratically just from remembering her predicament - they are seconds away from death.

The assassin registers the look on her face, "If you're thinking of sacrificing yourself -"

"No, but i can buy some time for you." She turns towards Sofyan, whose eyes are looking at her, apologetically, as if accepting his fate. She signals him to get ready, to prepare for an attack, to aim for the archers. He looks confused, but passing the message nonetheless.

"Ambra -" the assassin calls, pulling on her armbrace. "Don't be foolish."

She nods, "One chance."

The footsteps of the guards from the hallway is getting closer now, and she fears they will barge in before she has the chance to speak. Inhaling deeply, feeling her whole body shuddering, she forces herself to be strong and begins to exclaim,

"J-J-Jaqq!"

Silence. No one says anything.

"Are you there?!" She calls again in her native Armenian.

"Who wants to know?!" Another Armenian speaks back, and she visibly trembles upon knowing who it is.

"Ambra!" She replies. "I'm back, J-Jaqq -"

A voice in French shouts back. She turns to the assassin for translation.

"He calls you a liar and something in line with that." The assassin explains.

"I'm not lying!" She retorts loudly, voice echoing in the halls. "If i show myself to you, will you promise not to shoot me?"

Some voices muttering in French. "They're talking - 'shoot her at my command'. Sister, what are you thinking?" The assassin chides her.

"Hush." She hisses quietly.

"Are you really Ambra?!" Jaqq's voice is booming loudly. "Or are you a pretender? Who knows what you've listened from us!"

"I really am Ambra." She answers, slightly calmer. "I was born in the barn on winter night. My father was a fighter, and my mother was a breeder - you had your guard killed her when she refused to give me away."

There is a knowing tap of ivory cane against the wooden floor, "I'm not convinced!"

"Summertime three years ago, you called me to this house and asked me to bear you a son!" She grits her teeth, fighting back tears, "i ran away the next day!"

A few undistinguished muttering, that even the assassin beside her cannot decipher. She is fighting against her own trembling body - being able to call Jaqq with almost no hesitation or fear.

"Come out now then!" Another voice calls with a weird accent.

"Do you promise you won't shoot me?!" She asks.

"I promise - come out now!"

The assassin grabs onto her holster, "Don't do it."

She taps his gloved hand, and he removes his grip from her, "Get ready."

Inhaling deeply, Ambra lowers her hood. Her hands that are clenching onto the tails of her sash are forced to be still. She takes one step carefully, registering the look on Sofyan's face, on the brethren's faces. This is reckless, she forces a smile, before stepping out to the line of fire.

The gasp of Jaqq is enough answer for her. He shouts something in foreign language, an order that makes the guards lower their crossbows. Ambra tries to remain calm, despite all senses in her body telling her to move away.

"Ambra..." Jaqq's voice is stern, but faltering. Dark orbs looking at her from top to toes, unabashed, "You've grown."

She clenches her teeth, forcing herself to keep her eyes on him, however much she wants to lower her gaze as she usually instructed to.

"Bolder now, aren't you?" Jaqq turns to one of his associates, telling him about something that she does not understand, but he is pointing at her.

"What do you want?" The associate asks.

"An agreement." She says shakingly. "I will return to J-Jaqq, in exchange that my brethren be spared."

The associate laughs, oblivious to her finger gesturing silently to the brethren to be prepared. She is unsure of what this will result, by Allah, she could die - but this is as any good as a window of chance as it can be.

"You have no leverage." The associate scoffs.

"J-Jaqq, would you have me killed?" She asks. "If i come with you, i'll bear you a son. I'll do whatever you wish. But if you kill me now -"

Jaqq raises his hand, "You ran away, Ambra. I offered you heaven, and you chose hell - have you not been defiled?"

She swallows thickly, "Then kill me."

A guard raises his crossbow, only to be smacked by Jaqq. The bolt is shot, however, and lands on the pillar beside her. Jaqq hits the guard again with his cane, "You dog! I didn't tell you to shoot!"

They are bickering now, this is a good moment. She signals, "Now." And before she can blink, the white tunics of the brethren come between her and the line of fire. A few slicing sounds is heard, and she gasps as an arm drags her back to the pillar almost too quickly, knocking the breath out of her.

Then she hears groaning, bodies thudding down to the floor, a few guards are screaming. She registers the assassin that has pulled her back to safety, the same one, and she nods. "That went well, didn't it?"

"I do believe it is." He signals for others to continue before giving the Templars more time to regain control. "You have a target to kill."

The assassin moves ahead of her, and she follows his lead, as he opens a way to attack the remaining guards. She sheathes her sword, parrying an incoming attack, and lunges at a nearby guard to stab him with her hidden blade. She catches a sight of a few brethren taking care of the guards coming from the hallway, Sofyan is aiding her side, and again, she feels the tingling in her hands and feet. An excitement or anxiety, she has no idea.

When the guards have all been killed, Sofyan steps ahead of her. "Wait for a while, sister."

She is panting, eyebrows frowning, and sweat rolling down her forehead and nose. She watches as Sofyan and the brethren take on the associates one by one. Swift movement, trained, and unpredictable. This is the skills of the higher ranked. Her eyes move to Jaqq, finding him clenching onto the sword that has been pulled out of his ivory cane, eyes darting here and there trying to attack whoever that is too close to him.

Kill him.

Would it not be glorious to have him lifeless soon?

Ambra readies her sword and lunges forward, dashing past the swords, eyes fixating onto Jaqq. She finds his eyes widening. A delightful expression to be seen by her.

When their swords clash in mid-air, she parries quickly and buries her hidden blade in his chest.

Never underestimate the enemy, that is what Altaïr teaches her. She is surprised to find Jaqq holding onto her left armbrace, while his sword-clenching hand begins to swing at her. She dodges, barely, as the handle of the sword lands on the side of her head, rendering her grunting.

"Why did you leave, Ambra?! Why?!" He angrily exlaims, swinging his sword again.

She lowers herself to the floor, and with all her strength, headbutts him on the groin. It effectively causes him to let her go, and she immediately rolls away.

"I gave you life when others would like to kill you! I clothed you, fed you, raised you! You are mine! Mine!" Each words that he says are followed by his attacks, sword swinging, and she is parrying, deflecting.

A splash of blood startles both him and her. She registers it squirting out of the neck wound on one of Jaqq's associates'. Before she can react, Jaqq's sword comes slicing from above, nearly nicks her, if she has not tripped backwards and lands on her bottom.

The fight becomes too close to her liking, that soon she finds it difficult to parry at such short distance. Despite the gaping wound in his chest, Jaqq keeps attacking ahead, face red in anger. She wonders how long can he keep this up until he loses all of his blood. End his suffering, Ambra, she reminds herself.

"I had belief that you'd returned to me -" he attacks from the right, and she dodges, returning the attack immediately. He is taken aback, but so is she, as her sword slices through the side of his tunics, staining him red.

"I did return." She huffs. "To kill you."

And her heart is bursting with rage and hatred as her mind is flooded by the memories of what he has done to her and her friends. The pain, the suffering, the unfairness, the inhumane treatments - she attacks relentlessly. Imagining how easy it was for him to order a guard to kill her mother. To order which slaves to sell and which to keep, which to serve and which to fight. How simple it was for him to treat human beings like animals, as if they never have rights, to reduce them simply to objects or belongings.

But what she hates the most is his audacity to point and ask her for his selfish purpose, asking for a son from her, after all he has done.

The lashing and the caning, the laughter and the mocking, the hands as they roam freely on any slaves he desired -

She feels the handle of her sword slicing through something heavy, and she pushes it to her limit. A gagging sound is heard, briefly, followed by a loud thud - and another thud hitting the wall before dropping to the wooden floor.

There is no attack coming anymore.

She is panting, sweating, feeling her hands sticky. The acidic smell of blood is prickling at her nose with each breath that she takes. The realization of what she has done comes to her gently, as her eyes register the body of Jaqq lying in front of her, blood pooling around.

And his head is by the wall, wide eyed and mouth agape, a silent scream he never has the chance to let out.

He is dead.

Jaqq is dead.

Ambra exhales deeply before making her way towards the wall, feeling the aftermath of the battle comes rushing down throughout her body. She leans against the wall, eyes scanning the room. Sofyan approaches her, a soft but painful smile on his face, as he takes the sword from her hand - she now sees how bloody it is, even the handle is dirty.

He sheathes the sword to her scabbard, "You did it, Ambra."

She nods, "It's done..." She grips onto his upper arms, as he does the same to her. The same gesture they have shared as brother and sister. "He is dead, isn't he?"

Sofyan chuckles, "With his headless state, i'm sure he is."

She finds her bloody palms staining the white tunic of Sofyan, "That was too much, was it?"

"Well... Let's say if Altaïr is here, he would berate you for it."

Ah, Altaïr - she sighs. It is a pity that he did not see what she has done. After all, who she is right now is by his design. She suddenly feels exhausted, feeling a longing to be in his embrace, to tell him that she is free from the nightmare now -

"Where is he?" She asks hoarsely, only now noticing how dry her throat is.

"My guess? Possibly helping the slaves escape - God knows how he'd catch up with a ship -"

"What?" Her eyes widen, and Sofyan's as well. "Sofyan, what do you mean? What's with the slaves?"

The wave of realization hits him too late, "You're still not fluent in French." He says in surprise. "At the meeting, the Templar said they were transporting the slaves by the ship as they speak. Jaqq and those men intended to relocate this business to the land of the Crusaders."

Ambra's hands clench around his arms - no, no, no - but he said he was going to secure an exit for them! He lied? She cannot remember the detail of his face as he said so - how easy it was for him, and how gullible it was for her to believe him - he'd never lie, but he -

But that is not important right now. Her friends. Her journey will be meaningless if she cannot meet them, cannot save them. She needs to go.

The night air feels heavenly as the front door is opened. Ambra notices the guards are all dead, and she looks up to the tower, finding it empty. Hamzah should have been there, she thinks.

Her feet lead her running towards the dock. The path she is taking is the same one that eventually will lead towards the barn. Despite her mind telling her to stop by the barn, just to check, she is anxious to see the ships on the dock. There are footsteps coming behind her, a few are heavier. She is startled as a dark horse stops her track.

The face of the same assassin that has aided her in battle comes to view, "You're going on foot? Come on!"

She climbs up the horse, sitting behind him, despite the small space. Comfort is the least of her concern, despite being jostled around, and having to hold onto the belt of the assassin in front of her. Her heart and mind are truly racing with worry. What if the ship has sailed away? Her friends will never know they have been liberated. She will never meet them again. She will never know if Sofi is still alive or not.

"There!" The assassin exclaims, and she looks forward to see the tall masts of ships in the distance. They look weird, crooked - "They seem to be sinking!"

A few brethren on horses are riding past them. Something is wrong. She looks forward again to assess the situation. The closer they are getting to the ships, the more she sees the details. The crew with bound hands kneeling on the ground, Hamzah with the crossbow readied in case anyone tries to get away, the front of the ship that has lodged itself to the back of another ship -

And Altaïr wading through water, wet from top to toes.

"Altaïr!" The assassin calls as they have arrived. Ambra jumps down from the horse, nearly loses her footing, but regains quickly.

Altaïr approaches her, frowning, but whatever he is about to say dies down immediately. She approaches him, hands clenching - fighting back the urge to slap him across the face - for what? For lying to her?

"Where are my friends?" She asks shakingly as they stop in front of each other.

"The ships are sinking, Ambra, the hulls have been filled with water -"

She pushes him, but he does not budge. If anything, his eyes widen - a warning. She bites back a retort and opts to walk past him, towards a paddle boat. A painful grip suddenly stops her, turning her around to face the sharp look on the golden orbs of Altaïr.

"Listen to me-" he grunts as she pulls slightly, "there isn't enough time. By the time you reach the ship, it will be sinking - they will all be dead -"

She grunts in reply. How could he? She claws against his grip, trying to remove it. "You know this and choose to abandon them?" He pulls her to him, but she puts a hand between them, stopping the motion. She lowers her head to bite onto his hand - even before her teeth are closing around his skin, he has removed her, seemingly to have learned from experience. But the moment is small and will be short lived, and she knows he will never let her reach the ships on her own.

So when she kicks him hard on the groin, she immediately turns around and heads towards the paddle boat.

Everything becomes a blur to her. Not even the straining muscles of her arms are noticed by her as she paddles quickly. Her breath hitches as a creaking sound is heard from the ships. They can't swim - she pants.

Abandoning the paddle boat as she nearly reaches the ship, she jumps into the water and finishes the last of her trip. Clawing up the wooden walls of the ship to reach the deck, she ignores the splinters prickling into her nails. Under her weight, she feels the ship is lowering itself into the water - and she finds herself praying, please, let there be enough time...

When she opens the hatch to the hull, finding it to be mostly filled with water, she ignores the danger and jumps in.

Darkness greets her. The small amount of light coming from the only lantern that is still alight somehow helps her. "Hello?!" She calls ahead, eyes looking around the hull.

"Hey! Hey! Over here!"

The clanking sound and the splashing of water alert her of their position. She wades through, feeling the water becomes deeper the more she moves towards them. Her heart leaps in joy upon finding them - frantic behind bars, locked in the same area, with ropes tied around their hands - the familiar faces that she recognizes even in the dark.

"Ambra?" Comes the first realization from one of her friends.

"Ambra! It's Ambra!"

"She's alive!"

Ambra pushes herself to the bars, trying to embrace them as much as she can. She feels them patting her, hands gliding to lower her hood, to caress her hair and face. She sighs, feeling glad, feeling like thousands of sparks of happiness bursting at the same time in herself. The softly spoken words, the gentleness, the voices - she misses them.

Then another voice comes, and she cannot contain her tears.

"Ambra? Is it really you?" The voice of Sofi calls. The hands are caressing her cheeks.

Ambra chokes back a reply, unable to form a coherent word as she stutters. Sofi looks thinner, paler, definitely older. Time has not been kind to her. There is a new scar over her left cheek, not a branding, possibly from the guards. But the eyes have never changed. The look she is giving is the same look she gave every day in the mill. The smile - the softest smile she has ever seen.

"Sofi -" Ambra manages through her tears.

"Oh, Ambra..." Sofi replies, lips quivering. "Look at you now."

Ambra chuckles painfully, "I did it, Sofi. You're free. J-Jaqq is dead."

The mutterings behind bars are loud and ecstatic. "He is dead?!"

"Jaqq is dead!"

Sofi caresses Ambra's cheeks again, "Ambra, my dear -"

"I killed him, Sofi. I did it. I joined the assassins after you helped me escape. I have a new master now - a lover - he taught me to be who i am now. And i'm sorry -" Ambra chokes on her tears again, "i'm sorry it took so long - i'm sorry -"

"Hush, hush, Ambra," Sofi tightens her grip. "You did it, that's what matters."

Ambra nods frantically. "Now i'll try to get you out of here. Let me find the keys."

"Try the pillars! I saw the guard putting something there!" One of her friends says.

Hesitantly, Ambra lets go of Sofi to head towards the pillars. The lack of light does not help at all, adding the water that has raised up to her hips now, and she finds her outfit to be confining. The first pillar she reaches, she runs her hands along the wooden surface, along the roughness, but finds nothing.

She heads to another pillar near the center of the hull. Repeating the same action, her hands find an extinguished lantern instead. She now heads to the third pillar, far on the other side of the bars, by some toppled crates and tangled ropes.

A loud creaking is heard again, and she is jostled aside as the ship suddenly moves. She grabs onto the nearest object that she can find - a broken crate, palms grazed by the wooden surface. Gasping for air, she is startled as the ship is tilting backwards, slowly, steadily -

The screaming of her friends sends her panicking as the sudden change of position of the ship has rendered the barrels and crates to slide down towards the bars. Ambra tries her best to hold onto something steady, but fails as the crate she is gripping is bringing her to slide down towards the bars.

She groans as her torso makes contact with the hard irons of the bars. Her friends are holding onto them now - and it sends her panicking even more as she realizes how deep the water has become in their side. No, no, no - she pushes herself to scramble towards the gate of the bars. There should be something that she can do - anything.

Cursing her limited knowledge of lockpicking, she unsheathes her hidden blade and decides to jam it between the gate and the bars, right where she believes the lock will be. This should be it, right? All she needs to do is pry it open, and -

The clank alerts her, and she stares in disbelief at her broken hidden blade. The top half has fallen into the water, the same water where her friends are trying to get away from. She unsheathes her dagger now - surely there is no harm to try, right?

But the blade is too thick, it cannot even fit between the gap. She tries again to jam it, but it stubbornly refuses. Allah, no, she pants, sheathing it back. There should be a way. Any way - there cannot be no way!

Her eyes flick back up to the pillars. The key. The key is hanging somewhere over there. But how is she supposed to reach there? The ship begins to sink again, bringing water more into the hull, filling behind the bars as it is the lowest position now.

"Ambra -" Sofi gasps, face pressed in between bars. "Ambra, look at me."

Ambra does so, but crying. Crying because she knows this is it. She has failed. If only she knows about lockpicking, if only she has reached the last pillar quicker, if only she tries better -

"Hush, Ambra..." Sofi pulls onto her hand, and Ambra finds herself lowering to the bars, crying louder. "It is alright -" she coughs as water interrupts her speaking. "It's alright, Ambra."

"It's not - i've failed - i - i -"

Sofi grabs her onto her chin tightly, "You're saved. That's all that matters."

"But you're not! I was supposed to save you! Not this..." Ambra bangs her fist against the gate. It does not create a clanging sound as she expects, but it created a ripple in the already high water.

Against the frantic screaming and crying of her friends, Sofi still smiles the softest smile Ambra has ever seen. The gentleness of her eyes, and the caress of her rough palms, the quivering lips as she presses a kiss to Ambra's forehead. And Ambra wonders if her tears are to be blamed for helping the water to rise up quicker, for making her friends drowned -

The last creak is heard loudly, and the top of the hull is ripped from the outside. Water enters quickly now, and Ambra inhales as much air as she can, hands gripping onto Sofi from behind the bars. Giving up on wherever the ship is going to take them now.

Under the dark abyss, she cannot see anything. Her vision gives a glimpse of dark figures behind bars, fleeting, not living. In her grips are the hands of Sofi, harsh and cold, unmoving. She can see a bit of her facial feature. The smile etched on her face, the eyes are closing, the skin that has turned blue from lack of air -

She is dead.

Sofi is dead.


	46. Chapter 46

The warmness of the bureau in Sis is greatly appreciated by Altaïr, but not the situation. Labib and Ahmed are preparing a symbolic burial for the brethren who have fallen by burying their tunics. Most of those who are alive are tending to each others' wounds, and they are even more quieter than they usually are. Though his suspicion of the source lies towards a certain person in the meditation room.

After Ambra's reckless action - biting and kicking him just to buy enough time to reach the ship - he found himself having to swim back to follow her. The ship sank fully before he can reach it. He pushed himself to dive down, forcefully moving all of his muscles to reach the torn hull, only to find Ambra holding onto the lifeless body of her friend - the one he believed must have been Sofi.

It was startling to him, to find Ambra's eyes closing, as if offering herself to death. Despite having told her to return to him alive - finding her doing the opposite somehow angers him, and disappoints him at the same time. He does not know which one is punishable, her reckless action, her brashness for hiting him, or her abandonement to swipe Jaqq's blood with the feather. Luckily, Sofyan was attentive to that, and did so after she has returned to the surface, taking the feather from her wet pouch.

Ambra came to a few moments after leaving the mill. She was frantic, but he was prepared, having tied her hands in front of her body, and covered herself in kaftan. He pressed his hand over her mouth before she could say anything, and dangerously, he spoke, "Whatever you wish to say, keep it until we're alone."

And she did. Not uttering a word even once along the road.

Altaïr enters the meditation room, finding the lack smell of incense to be comforting, but not the occupant. Ambra notices his entrance, emerald eyes glancing at him before looking away quickly.

He closes the door behind him, locking it. Now walking barefoot onto the carpet, he reaches out to her, hand grabs her by the shoulder. "Ambra," he calls with a sigh.

Her expression hardens, pained, as she speaks, "You lied."

He feels her trembling, and he brings her to sit down. She does so with no hesitation, almost without energy.

"They were going to be transported. You left early - you said you wanted to secure our exit. I didn't know -" she closes her eyes, frowning, "i-if only i was quicker, i'd finish J-Jaqq earlier and be able to save them..."

He takes his hand off of her, finding the lack of trust in her gestures. How she closes herself, body hunched over as if to cover her torso, hands hugging herself around the stomach.

He sighs deeply, "If i had told you the truth, you'd be distracted from the mission."

"My friends were my mission too."

"Ambra," he calls a bit loudly, "you've killed Jaqq."

"But i failed to save my friends." She retorts sharply, angrily. How tensed her body is right now that he is certain she will yell soon - and he prepares himself to muffle her, to keep her calm.

But it never comes.

He inhales deeply, trying to stay calm. "In the process of saving your friends, did you forget the rules of the creed?"

She remains silent, not even looking at him.

"True, you didn't break the tennets, but you did disregard the higher ranked. Kicking me? We may be lovers, but out there on a mission, we're assassins, Ambra." He says. "And going against my order right in front of the brethren is very disrespectful. I'm still your instructor, as you are my student. Ambra, look at me."

She raises her head, and for once, her eyes do not bear gentleness. They look stern with a hint of sadness. Her lips are pursed and her jaw is clenched. She is angry... He concludes.  
"I will let your action slides for this time, but there will be no second chance." He says. "I'm done talking as your instructor."

He finds her lips trembling, a hint that she is about to cry, and without thinking twice, he grabs the back of her head and pushes her face to his shoulder. She claws against the front of his tunic, and he shushes her as calmly as he can. Though the gesture is not familiar to him, he knows how it feels to lose someone and not having anyone to comfort him.

So when he brings her to lie down, her muffled cries seem aloud in the confine of the meditation room. Her whole body shudders with each take of breath. Each painful sound she emits sends him back to the same feeling years ago - curled up in his father's room, arms wrapped around his pillow, inhaling what possibly the last trail of life of the man.

And it almost feels cruel that here she is inhaling his scent - and the first thing she said to him after days of silence is that he lied.

A few moments later, she has stopped crying, now coughing and breathing heavily against his chest. He brings her to sit down again, but she refuses to let go of himself. "You should drink, Ambra." He says, glancing towards the jar of water in the corner.

She shakes her head, "I'm fine."

He sighs, wrapping his arms around her tighter. His hand is threading the hair on the back of her head, and he lowers his face to kiss the side of her head. An action that sends her whimpering, tensing - and he reminds himself not to tease her at such inappropriate moment. But he stills there, "Had i said it honestly, your focus would be divided, and you won't be able to kill Jaqq."

She groans lowly against his chest, "I could at least do it quicker."

"How reckless more can you be?"

"How unfair." She sniffles, "whenever you performed risky actions, you said you know what you're doing. Why am i the reckless one if i act the same?"

He sighs again, "You're reckless because you force yourself pass the limit."

"I learned from you."

He chuckles, relenting, "Yes, you did."

She removes herself from his embrace, and he holds her within an arms reach to observe through her tears. How red and wet her face is, and she is trying to remedy it by wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic. He cups her cheeks and caresses as gently as he can, yet finding her flinching at the action, tears rolling down to his thumbs. It is not his touch that she fears, this he knows, it is where he touches that causes such reaction.

He finds her emerald orbs looking at him, still with the hint of sadness, but not with anger anymore. He smiles a bit at her, "What i did was wrong, but it was for the best."

She sniffles again, eyes closing, leaning to his palms. "It's your right." When the eyes are open again, he sees a hint of danger there, but it is nothing compared to her venomous words. "But as your servant, i'm obliged to never lie."

Again with the reminder of their status - "Shall i liberate you just so you understand of my action?" He frowns, lowering his hands to place them beside her on the carpet, propping himself as he leans over her. "Now that you've earned your revenge, shall i be heartless and order you to stop being an assassin?"

She does not respond. Not even when he hover over her face. Not even when her blushing cheeks are evident to him.

"I lied for the best." He continues. "Do you blame me for the death of your friends?"

Ah, there it is. She begins crying again, hands smacking his shoulders a bit loudly. "You abandoned them!" She hisses, trying to be as quiet as possible. "You could have saved them - Altaïr - i was so close to reach the keys! The ship - they can't swim!"

Could i? He wonders if her words are true, that he could have saved the slaves if he did not choose to abandon ship. But it was too dangerous - even when the ship truly sank, he was lucky to enter the hull from the cracked opening to get to Ambra. He sighs, "Would you prefer me dead to save them?"

"Of course not!" She hisses again, turning her face away from him.

He sighs again, "Turn around, Ambra."

She opens her mouth to speak, but swallows her words quickly with an angry grunt. She turns around on her seat with a huff, undone hair swinging as she does so.

Altaïr inhales deeply to calm himself down, feeling a small fire burning in his chest from her words and actions, something he intends to extinguish before it turns into something dangerous. If he knows anything about anger, is that one should avoid looking at what causes it. Despite the truth that she is angry with him, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her to him.

He feels her tensing as his hands wrap around her own, and he pulls her to lean against his chest, between his legs. He moves backwards a bit until he can lean comfortably against the pillows, bringing her to him again. She is still so tensed even when he rests his head on her shoulder, hands crossing in front of her chest to keep her from harming both of them.

"I will stay like this until you calm down." He mutters, nuzzling the hair with his nose just so he can speak over her ear. "Take your time, however long it is."

 

Emptiness is the first thing that Ambra registers when she woke up on a horse days ago. Even right now, after realizing the truth that her friends are truly dead, she still feels it. Only this time, there is a burning rage inside her. The same rage she felt for Jaqq.

But to whom exactly?

Her first instinct is to yell at Altaïr for what he did. Despite his words, she finds him to be blamed - abandoning the ship like that. Yet now she also wonders of the probability, of what would happen if he did not abandon them, of what could go wrong or right if the reality was altered -

"You lied to me." She whispers painfully, feeling tears stinging to fall down.

"I did." He replies, voice rumbling against her back.

She should not take it as an offense, but by Allah, she is angry for it. Angry, because although they are lovers, he still keeps the truth to himself. Angry, because he lied so easily to her face. Is it the reason? Or is she angry because she thought too much of this relationship that she expected him to change?

Who am i kidding - Altaïr is Altaïr...

And she wonders if he will do so again in the future - possibly yes. And the answer pains her so much, knowing that she cannot trust him again, not as a lover. But as his servant, she cannot do anything against it - it is his right to say and do whatever he pleases, right? Why should she demand more now?

It should not come as a surprise to her, no. She should have known from the start, there are prices to pay for being with him, for enjoying his company, for spending moments with the man who claims her heart. Yet right now, she cannot form a word to say to him, anything, that could convey her meaning and feeling.

So silence it is.

If anything, she knows Altaïr hates guessing. He wants her to speak directly of her thoughts and feelings, always like that. So she opts to stay silent, quiet, muffling her own anger.

This position, however, does not help her much. It is the same position that he put them through during their big fight more than a year ago, and it sends her a reminder of that moment. When she was in his embrace, burning with anger for what he had said - that she can leave to be with other assassin - back when they were nothing. Back when she had no idea of what he felt for her, and what she truly felt for him. Back when she believed that all her life, she will only be his servant and nothing more.

And the reminder sends her crying quietly, as she looks back to how far they have come through - and how could she stay silent when he is right here behind her, embracing her, lips kissing her shoulder gently, almost apologetically? That right now, the Altaïr she is seeing is not an instructor or an assassin, but as a man - and how could she keep seeing herself as his mere property?

The small action of relaxing against his touch is taken as a cue by him to raise his kiss to the side of her head. "If it's fair," he mutters hushly over her ear, "you did not exactly stay true to me."

"How so?" She sniffles.

"I asked you to stay with me, yet you left to kill yourself." He kisses behind her ear, an action that sends her jumping. He hums once, pressing another kiss there. "I did what i did because it was too risky to stay on the ship. If i die, you'd be left without me - would you rather have that?"

She shakes her head, "No."

"Not only you'd be left without an instructor, you'd also be appointed to another assassin. Although i'm sure Malik will take you in immediately - not that i want him to." He sighs. "And i have no intention of losing you. It was either your friends, me, or you -"

He tightens his grips on her hands as she tenses. "With you, i could have saved them." She says shakingly.

"Ambra," he calls quietly. "We can't save everyone."

The silence fills the space between them for what seems like hours. His hold on her does not falter once, instead, she finds herself constantly dozing off in his warmth, exhausted from the crying. When she dozes off for the umpteenth time, she finds him moving, scooting lowly so that they can lie down on their sides, resting against the pillows.

"Cold?" He asks hushly as they have lied down, hands moving to a better position.

"No." She mutters in reply.

Despite the exhaustion that washes over herself, she cannot sleep just yet. Not when Altaïr is curling his arm around her waist, just under her breasts. Not when his other arm is used as a support for her neck, and she finds herself touching his palm, caressing his stub.

His breathing has calmed down in a very short time, though it is interrupted whenever she stirs, until his legs are intertwined with her own. She feels him muttering a 'good night' against her scalp.

His light snoring becomes her companion. She dozes off again, letting the exhaustion takes her completely.

 

"Altaïr."

The call of his name sends him awake and alert immediately. He looks around, finding the dim meditation room, and Ambra still lying in his arms. He hums once, clearing his throat to erase hint of sleep. "Yes?"

"What awaits us after death?"

The question startles him that he has to sit up slightly to ensure that it really came out of Ambra's mouth. She turns around to him, eyes open, wet and red, and face slightly pale than usual. Did she have a nightmare?

He settles them for a better position, pulling her to rest under his chin, tucked neatly. She wraps a hand behind his back, and he acknowledges her trusting gesture. "What's with the question?"

She sniffles, burying her face in his chest. "I was thinking if i had condemned my friends to eternal torture. They had to deal with J-Jaqq in life, now he's dead, b-but they are too..." She stutters slightly before regaining her composure. "What if... What if they meet again in the afterlife? There will be no exit this time..."

Altaïr kneads on her lower back, sighing. He remembers asking the same question to Al-Mu'alim when he was a child, and it resulted in an answer that he will never forget.

"There's a belief that when we die, we will see the world as we used to live in. For those who sacrifice their lives for others, they will live in a world of kindness and compassion. While those who take more than they need will see a world of corruption and hate." He explains. "They will live eternally in those world, and they will meet those who are alike in souls. Friends, families -"

He hears her breath hitches, and he kneads her back again.

"Do you think -" she shudders, "h-how do you choose your world?"

"Well," he sighs, "the belief goes that you will choose the place and the moment when you're the happiest. Be it a garden, a castle, a road, wherever it is."

She sniffles again, "I don't think my friends have a happy place..."

"Surely there is one happy moment you shared together." He says, running his hand up and down her back, kneading lightly.

She inhales deeply, "There is - was -" she rectifies quickly, "right before sleep, we used to gather and talk about many things. Anecdotes, stories, places where the buildings are tall and the windows are tinted, different things they had seen." He feels her smiling painfully against his chest. "But the best moment would be the first day of spring. To stand in the field when the sun rised and the warm air came, and we'd knew winter had passed - and -" her smile turns into a pout, "- and we'd loved it b-because that meant no more shivering on the floor - no more frostbitten fingers and cheeks -"

He hums once as she cries again, quieter this time, as he suspects she has no more tears to cry. "Then your friends will receive a world where they are the happiest. They will be standing on a field where the crops are ready for harvest. They will be wearing the best clothes ever tailored in the whole land, and they will look beautiful, handsome, healthy, clean, all the things they wished they are." He says, "they will watch the first sun of the spring rising up from the horizon, and they will greet the warmth to bask on the green grass. There will be the smell of flowers filling the air, and the sky will be clear, they will dance and sing -"

Her breath hitches again, and he holds her closer if it is possible.

"And they will never meet Jaqq or any slavers ever again. They will live free and happy." He kisses the top of her head, "so do not chase death and do not wish to join the dead, for you have a life to lead right now, and you'll have eternity when you meet your friends in the afterlife."

He is surprised that he is capable to speak like that. For believing in such thing, now listening how it really is, somehow acts as a reminder for himself too. Though there are brethren who believe that nothing really awaits in the hereafter, his belief at least gives a sense of comfort.

"Is this another lie?" She asks hoarsely, pulling away to look at him. He can see how broken she really is. How her eyes are forever scarred with sorrow.

He looks at her intently, "No, this is not a lie."

She huffs, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, "I'm sorry -"

No, he does not want to hear that coming out of her mouth right now. He cups her cheek, finding her eyes closing at the contact, and he leans down to touch his forehead against hers. "I suppose it's enough crying for tonight, don't you think?" He chuckles, earning a genuine smile from her. "We'll sort through the information found from Tarsus tomorrow, but if you wish to stay here -"

"I'm coming with you." She stays sternly, brows arched upwards. "This is my mission too."

"Very well." He smiles a bit. "We'll leave to Masyaf at night or the day after, whichever situation feels best."

"Yes, Altaïr." She replies, sniffling.

He pulls her in for a kiss, sighing as their lips make contact with each other. She returns the kiss gently, and he finds her relaxing even more in his arms. "Sleep." He mutters hushly over her lips, pecking another kiss.

She hums once before parting, eyes hazy and tired. He rolls to lie on his back, and she scoots closer, automatically placing her head on his chest, the usual sleeping position. He waits for her breathing to calm down first, which does not take long, as her body immediately relaxes.

But Altaïr reminds awake, thinking, contemplating, whether or not he should bear the guilt for causing her friends' death.


	47. Chapter 47

The winter elevation in Masyaf somehow is more festive than the spring elevation. With the lack of heat, the assassins are freely taking control of their surrounding to their advantage. The only downside is the slippery ground and walls. Today has been a cloudy day, but the snow has not fallen yet, and the assassins are out and about in the training field, training for the big day.

Leaning against the fence of the sparring ring is the oldest As-Sayf, Malik. He has been observing his students' movements, as they are climbing the walls of the castle. He makes mental note of what to fix from their postures, silently judging where they are moving, which part of the walls they grab, and how they are talking quietly to help each other.

"I see you, Rahim! Don't you dare help Bilal!" Malik shouts, startling the said student.

Rahim does not say a word. Malik crosses his arms across his chest, holding back from shivering from the cold air. He'd wear the kaftan, but it is still being cleaned up by the worker.

A figure approaches him, and he glances briefly to look at Abbas, coming around with a look of exhaustion. "Malik," he calls, looking up the walls to see the students. "Ah, pressing on the training, i see."

"Yes. What have you been doing?" Malik chuckles.

Abbas leans against the fence beside him, "The same. My students are practicing their knives as we speak. If only there is a faster method..."

"Basir's method usually works." Malik comments. "I applied it to my students - with a slight change, of course. Have them practice the movement first before truly throwing the knife."

"Ah, true. But they lack strength, not accuracy." Abbas grunts. "A second after the knife hits the target, it'll fall to the ground."

Malik chuckles, "They need sharper knives then - Kadar! What do you think you're doing?! No climbing over the window!" He shouts as his brother is grabbing a ledge of Al-Mu'alim's window, intending to climb over it. Kadar groans before moving back to the walls. "As i was saying, have the knives sharpened, Abbas."

Abbas hums acknowledgingly, "Good idea."

Another instructor walks past Malik and Abbas, with a line of students following him, and Malik recognizes him as Tholeb. "Safety and peace, Tholeb." Malik greets.

"Safety and peace, Malik, Abbas." Tholeb replies, gesturing the students to do the same. The young recruits says their greetings almost at the same time. How young, Malik innerly comments, chuckling at their round faces and small statures.

"Where are you heading?" Abbas asks, tone amused.

"Practicing their strength in the sparring ring. After Rauf's turn, of course." Tholeb replies, gesturing to the occupied sparring ring where Rauf's students are sparring. He glances up to the wall of the castle, "Climbing test, isn't it?"

"Yes. I'll have them perform leap of faith tomorrow, and free running afterwards." Malik elaborates. "Abbas might have his students throw some knives -"

"That, and demonstration with dagger." Abbas adds, "i was thinking of letting them fight against the higher ranked. It may be too much, but let it be a demonstration."

Malik catches a familiar voice talking in the distance, and he turns around to look. "Speaking of training..."

It is truly a surprising view for him to find Altaïr training Ambra with such gentleness. In the far corner of the field, they are practicing her dagger, slow movement at first, and it gradually shifts to faster speed. Then it stops, only for Altaïr to correct her posture or something else -

Huh. Malik unconsciously scoffs. Has he confessed to her, he wonders. But the look they share, the gesture, the way their bodies seem eager for each other's touch, are enough answer for Malik. But truly, he still finds their...'relationship' to be surprising. He knows Altaïr - too well to his liking, having shared a room and an instructor for years, having done numerous missions with him - and his conclusion shows how arrogant the man can be. Yes, he is skillful, but he does not put the aftermath of the risk into calculation - Malik is reminded of whenever Altaïr insisted to leave earlier for a mission, and he frowns upon realizing how he hates to argue with the man. There is no winning against him.

Even now, a few weeks after Altaïr and Ambra returned from their mission in Tarsus, Malik still finds Altaïr's traits to be unchanged. And he wonders if it is Ambra who changes herself for the assassin, yet he finds her to be the same - shy and gentle, though now bolder than she used to be. Then how come do they last this long without even wanting to kill each other?

Abbas is scoffing loudly beside Malik, and it interests him. It is not a secret that Abbas despises Altaïr, but it is something that Malik does not bother to look at. Rivalry among brethren is normal, there are those who hate him as well simply for existing, and he does not bother to take it to heart. Altaïr, however, earns the most admiration and rumors - a bit cruel, to be honest, that he is being hated on for being who he is. Well, it can't be helped...

"Is he truly going to raise her rank? Again?" Abbas scoffs. "She has just gained a rank this spring, yet to master fighting techniques like those in the same rank as her, and already he's pushing her again."

"He does so with me." Tholeb replies, tone a bit hostile. "Altaïr may seem hurried, but rest assure, his method has always worked."

"It's different. You and your brethren were gifted since the beginning. This one is not." Abbas retorts.

Malik glances to see Tholeb frowning, arms crossing in front of his chest, "With all respect, Abbas, she passed the same tests given to me. Being gifted has nothing to do with gaining a rank, it's a matter of dedication."

"Oh i'm not saying she's not dedicated. Talented, perhaps, in different...aspect." Abbas hums, cynical tone rolls off his tongue with a smirk.

Malik rolls his eyes at the remark, "Is that the new talk of the fortress then? That's a bit low to your taste, don't you think?"

"You tell me." Abbas scoffs. "Say, Tholeb, your room is next to Altaïr's. Surely you heard something."

"Even if i did, it's none of my business or yours." Tholeb retorts quickly.

"Now, now, Abbas, stay your tongue in front of the innocent ones." Malik tuts, rather enjoying the cynical tone of Abbas, but at the same time despising the topic he has brought up.

"Yes, i forgot someone brought children." Abbas quips.

"We're not children!" One of Tholeb's students replies, truly earning a laughter from Abbas, and a scolding from Tholeb. The small recruit frowns, trying to be menacing, which only serves to make Abbas laugh even more.

Tholeb relents from the conversation and brings his students elsewhere without a word. Though Malik can hear the faint scolding he is giving to his students for raising their voice to an instructor.

Abbas suddenly gives another hum, but this time full of amusement. "I think i'll have my students testing their dagger with Ambra for the test."

"Keep dreaming." Malik scoffs. "Altaïr only lets her fight against my students."

"That's because your brother goes soft to her."

"I know, which is why i'd smack him if he dares to hold back."

"Nevertheless, my point stands. It's unfair to all of us that she only trains against your students - and, it can actually prove whether or not she is ready for the rank." Abbas says. "I believe the talk of the fortress now goes as far as she'd do anything he wants under the cover -"

Malik groans, "I don't need that image in my head."

"Neither do i, but," Abbas continues, "it makes you wonder, doesn't it? She's an assassin and Altaïr's personal servant at the same time."

Malik turns to look at Abbas, frowning. His observational skill never lies, and right now he is amused at what he finds. "You're envious."

"What?" Abbas turns as well.

"You're envious of Altaïr, aren't you?" Malik raises an eyebrow. "Or is it jealousy? You wish to have Ambra as well -"

"Nonsense." Abbas cuts off too quickly, confirming Malik's theory. The older As-Sayf grins in satisfaction, having turned the table to Abbas' discomfort. Malik gives a last look at Altaïr and Ambra - they are talking hushly about something - before turning around to see his own students' progress.

 

Malik heaves a sigh of relief upon entering the garden. Today's training has been moving accordingly, and he is satisfied enough with his students, despite the small mistakes they still did. Right now he only wants to relax, a distraction from tomorrow's test, and who else can deliver it better than the courtesans?

Lina greets him with an outstretched arms, and he is tempted to fall into her embrace. "Good evening," he purrs as she takes his arm, pressing herself to him. She smells like flowers, still with her brown hair tied up in a ponytail, and the red clothes she is wearing - but mostly with the bright smile she is giving.

"Rough day?" Lina asks, leading him towards the inner chamber in the left corner of the garden.

"Yes - elevation test tomorrow. I'm sure a lot will come to you as well." Malik replies. They are entering the familiar communal room of the courtesans, where some of them are sitting around a fireplace, and some are playing chess, reading books, talking. He flashes a smile at them, earning a reply in form of sultry smiles and seducing winks. But he keeps on walking, following Lina's lead to her room.

The room is a simple cubical space with a thick carpet and a heap of pillows. There is a chest in the corner where he knows she keeps her clothes - having rummaged through her belonging curiously years before. He closes the door behind him, pulling her in for a much needed kiss.

Malik chuckles into the kiss upon feeling Lina's trained hands undoing his belt. He does not even realize his holster has been removed, only comes to know it when something heavy falls to the floor. He helps by removing his left armbrace, not wanting to harm her with the hidden blade.

Lina pulls away from the kiss with a knowing look on her face, "You didn't take a bath, didn't you?"

"Afterwards, i suppose. Did my scent bother you so?" He raises an eyebrow. She is putting his belt aside, hips swaying with each movement.

"I kind of like your smell." She replies, returning to him, pushing him to the door. He laughs at her ferocity, something he always admires from her. But his voice gets caught in his throat as she sneaks a hand into his trousers, grabbing at his still softened manhood. "Shall i bathe you as well then?"

Malik huffs breathlessly, "Tempting, but -"

"Ah, ah, ah, you never complained." She cuts him off, biting her lower lip while her brown eyes observe his face, gliding from his dark orbs to his parted lips. Her hand begins to move, pumping, eliciting a reaction from his manhood.

He grabs the back of her head, pulling her for a kiss, which she happily obliged. His hand moves to wrap itself around her waist, gripping at her curve, pulling her body closer to him. He can feel her other hand caressing his side, trailing up to cup his jaw.

She suddenly bites on his lips, resulting in him jumping, and she immediately moves backwards, away from his touch. He chuckles, "Is that an invitation to play?"

Lina winks, crossing her arms in front of her body to grab the hem of her transparent tops. Malik finds his gaze lowering to her chest, finding the action of her removing her clothes to be both seductive and entertaining. He cannot stay idle now - hands quickly undoing his sash, tossing it aside to pile in the corner. He goes to remove both of his tunics at the same time, with a bit of difficulty, as his hood is caught up in the process -

He jumps again as he feels Lina lowering his trousers, letting his manhood free to the air. "A bit unfair -" he gasps as he feels her lips kissing the tip of his manhood, followed by a warm and wet tongue lapping on the head. "Lina..."

The said courtesan giggles, "I'm on the upperhand here."

He hisses as she wraps her mouth around his manhood. Warm, almost hot - and he is struggling even more to remove his tunics, by now does not care anymore if he rips them in the process.

Goodness, she is truly bathing me - he throws his head back at the sensation, feeling her licking every bit of his manhood, nibbling, kissing, sucking like it is a source of water. His tunics are finally, successfully, removed, and he is treated to a wonderful view.

Lina looks up to him, tongue out, lips curving to a playful grin. He huffs, caressing her cheek. "I'll take my turn shortly. Prepare yourself." He mutters.

She hums, putting his manhood in her mouth - God! Malik bucks involuntarily. How deep is she going to take him, a question that is answered as he can feel the clenching of her throat around the hardened head. It does not last long, as she pulls back, and continues bobbing forward and backward quickly, sucking as she does so.

Malik lets her have the first victory. He feels himself climbing to bliss, feeling tensed as his abdomen clenches. "Lina." He sighs her name, looking down to her, admiring how insisting she is to break him.

He reaches the blissful state shortly, hips jerking involuntarily as his seeds shoot out. He does not bother to see where they land - oh there, he finds them staining the top of her breasts. She looks up to him, panting, flashing a small tip of her tongue.

"Admirable as always." Malik praises, pulling her up until they are face to face. "Give me five minutes and i'll return the favor."

"Take the time you need, honey, we have all night." Lina purrs. She takes his hand and guides him to rest on the carpet, against the pillows.

He tries to regain his stamina, all while watching Lina removing what remains of her clothes. He is treated to her bare body, flawless and smooth, with the curve of her waist and hips -

And his ever restless mind begins to wonder, all of the sudden, if Altaïr marks Ambra on other place but her neck - like her waist or -

Malik stops himself quickly, shaking off the image of Altaïr lowering himself to bite on Ambra's waist. Of all the moments, this is not the appropriate timing. But curiosity be damned, and he cannot help but piling questions over questions in his head, wondering how is the nature of Altaïr and Ambra's relationship right now.

I could ask her, is his initial thought, seeing how trusting she is to him. After all, he is more concerned of how Altair is treating her - the coldest man in the fortress, for God's sake. But that will be crossing the line, especially if she tells Altaïr afterwards, and Malik reminds himself constantly not to argue with the annoying man.

Lina returns bringing a jar of cedar oil. "Hey," she looks at him, standing over him, and he can see her womanhood clearly from this angle. "You're spacing out. Am i not enough for tonight?"

"Apologies, i was thinking." Malik hums, hands caressing her calves, moving up to her knees. He pulls against the back of her knees, sending her falling backwards. With trained movement, he catches her fall, and rolls her over until she is pinned underneath him.

Lina shifts under him, "Whatever is on your mind, if by the end of our activity is still there, talk to me."

Malik hums in agreement before kissing her deeply. Hands roaming all over her body, taking in the feel of her body under his touch. How rewarding it feels to hear her breathy moan and her giggles, mixing with his grunting and chuckling. The same activities they have shared for years, the same thing that relaxes him occasionally, and he is ready to last the whole night if he has to.

 

"So," Lina asks, head resting on his shoulder, finger drawing idle patterns on his chest. "I know when something is on your mind, Malik. Do tell."

Malik takes her hand, kissing the palm gently, "What makes you think i'm done with our activity?"

"Malik." Lina calls, softer, and he catches her eyes widening at him. It is how she begs for something, and it always works with him. "If we do it once more, you won't be able to wake up tomorrow."

"An understatement." He laughs, earning a sharp poke at his side.

"Must i call Mirah to make you talk?" She rolls over to lie on top of him, face a mere inch away. "When you're spent and tired, we'll keep on teasing without stopping. Just like the last time."

To this, Malik threads his hand to the back of her head, gripping at her undone hair, "I favor your company more than anyone else." And pulls her for a kiss. She lets out a whimper, a sign of defeat, finally. He moves her so she returns to the previous position beside him. "What i had in mind is only a worry over tomorrow's test."

That, and something else entirely.

Lina continues trailing idle patterns, playing with his chest hair. "Are you worried for your students or for your own?"

"Well..." He sighs, "my students were at least capable to face the spring's elevation test. They should still be able to face this one."

"With you as an instructor, of course." She presses a kiss to his throat.

He chuckles, "Don't suppose you've heard more rumors lately? Because the talk in the field is a bit too low to my standard."

She taps her nails on his chest, humming as she does so, "If you're asking for a specific rumor, i think i know which one. This is about Ambra, isn't it?"

"Jealous?" He purrs, gripping her waist tighter.

"No - annoyed. Can't you stop talking about her so lowly? She has been through so much." Lina mutters grimly.

"The detail of her last mission is unknown to me. If there's a good word about it, i can share it with the brethren. Do you know what the brethren call her nowadays?"

"No. What?"

"Altaïr's personal courtesan." Malik scoffs. "And that she is gaining a rank because Altaïr goes soft on her, you know, bedding her -"

"Don't talk about her like that!" Lina hisses, smacking him on the chest. "That's untrue - and unfair!"

"Well, enlighten me, then. I have no intention to talk badly behind her, but as a concerned brother, i wish to clear her name." Malik mutters, "because her instructor clearly has no care for such thing..."

Lina rolls over to her stomach, propping her chin on both of her hands. She has the look of contemplation, thinking, before she opens her mouth. "Several days ago, she came here before dinner, and asked for Talia. At first, i didn't know why, but then Talia called all of us to gather in her room." She looks at him, eyebrows arched up, as if pained. "Ambra... She managed to kill Jaqq - well, 'kill' would be too little - she decapitated him."

Malik's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It takes two things to decapitate someone: a sharp blade and a strong person. He wonders which one Ambra possessed at that time.

"Her mission was a success, but her friends couldn't be saved. They were transported by a ship, but it... Well, to put it short, there was an accident, and her friends couldn't be saved. Ambra blamed herself for it." Lina continues. "Now, i don't know why Altaïr pushes her to gain a rank, but i know she earns it. Certainly not because she sleeps with him. Tell that to the brethren."

Malik rolls his bottom lip into his mouth, biting on it, a habit he does whenever he is thinking. On one side, he wishes to talk to Ambra - he knows she will open up immediately. But on the other side, he does not wish to inflict pain upon her, making her remembering the mission and how it ended. Still, Lina's explanation does not answer his curiosity - though now he has an obligation to defend her should someone says horrible things about her.

Not that she cares of such thing, he huffs, just like her instructor.

 

If the topic of Altaïr and Ambra has not been popular these months, it certainly is this morning.

There is a sudden meeting for instructors in Al-Mu'alim's quarter. Malik is surprised to be called so early in the morning, but he goes anyway, believing that this will only talk about the elevation test and the upcoming ceremony.

Then Al-Mu'alim has a stern look on his face as he speaks, "I've received rumors of the brethren talking about Ambra. Lowly, might i add. Now, i'm not one to listen to cowardly talks, but i'd like to know why."

Majd is the first to speak, "No offense, Master, but i believe it's because of how Altaïr treated her."

"Me?" Altaïr retorts in surprise.

"Yes. She has just gained a rank last spring, yet you let her join another test today." Majd replies.

"And you let her wield throwing knives. She's not qualified for that yet." Khalid adds.

"Is this true?" Al-Mu'alim asks, gaze returning to Altaïr.

The assassin replies, "I only let her train with throwing knives to be familiar with the movement, that doesn't mean i let her wield them in battle. As for why i pushed her to join a test today, it's because i believe she is ready."

"Is she?" Abbas chimes in. "How do you know she's ready if you never let her fight against any of our students?"

"She is to fight against the higher ranked today."

"They'd go easy on her."

"They won't -"

"Hush, both of you." Al-Mu'alim cuts off both Altaïr and Abbas. "There is no written rules that decide when a student is ready for elevation. If the instructor deems them to be ready, then let them face a fair test."

"With all respect, Master," Abbas speaks, "i believe it will be to everyone's satisfaction to let Ambra fight against one of our students."

"Then have her fight against yours, isn't that what you want?" Malik chimes in.

Abbas turns to him, a hint of victorious smile, but cautious stare. "If it's permitted. My students will test her mettle."

"Well?" Al-Mu'alim asks again.

Altaïr is frowning, "Very well." He looks at Abbas, "but whatever injury your students will receive, she is not to be held responsible for it."

"Don't be so cocky, Altaïr." Abbas sneers.

"Now," Al-Mu'alim cuts off the banter before it can continue, "does anyone care to explain why the brethren are calling her names? Respecting others is crucial to our creed, and i will not let a higher rank calling a lower one with hateful names. I'll let it pass if it was a joke, but clearly it is not."

"Without offending anyone or taking sides, i do believe it's because the brethren believe she gained her rank for sleeping with Altaïr." Khalid answers.

Al-Mu'alim's eyebrows raise to his forehead, clearly surprised. "Is this true?"

Altaïr looks tensed as he replies, "She earned her rank on her own, not from other activity."

"You slept with her, Altaïr, there's an unfairness here." Majd adds.

"Last time i checked, she is still my servant, and we are permitted to do so. Whatever i wish to do with her is our business, not yours." Altaïr replies vemomously. Malik notices how the word 'servant' rolls off his tongue with disgust. The answer, however, earns a few vile remarks from the other instructors, even from Rauf.

"That is true." Al-Mu'alim says. "Tell me, since the first day she was here, all of you were not against her presence. Yet now, only after learning that she has been consumed by Altaïr, her master, might i add, that you start to protest her. What makes it any different now?"

There is a silence in the quarter. Even when Malik has speculated the answer, he does not dare to speak it out, fearing it might offend anyone else or humiliate a certain person. The answer is simple. No one expects Altaïr to warm up to Ambra, or the other way around. They were expecting her to stay timid and progress slowly. Their view of her has been low since the beginning, even more so when Malik and Altaïr went to rescue her that one time. But then she recovered, and successfully passed any training that Altaïr put her through, and now everyone is skeptical of her capability.

"I will not tolerate dishonesty and disrespect in this fortress. By Allah, control your students, and be a good example for them. Do i make myself clear?" Al-Mu'alim's voice is booming in the quarter.

"Yes, Master." The answer comes almost at the same time.

 

Perceptive might be both of Malik's gift and curse. This he knows for a long time, but only now he reassures himself, as he observes his surrounding. His students' elevation test has resulted in a success, flawless, which actually surprises him. Right now, leaning against the far wall of the training field, he is keen on seeing the promised fight between Ambra and Abbas' students.

He wonders which of the students that Abbas will send out. To Malik's knowledge, Abbas' students have one distinct method of fighting, that is each attack should have fatal effect. They are discipline and hardy, but lack defense.

In the other side of the field, Malik catches a sight of Altaïr talking to Ambra. She is stretching her arms, rolling her left shoulder - will the injury hinder her, he wonders. Meanwhile, Altaïr looks a bit agitated, not worry, but the man looks restless than usual. Strange, he is usually the epitome of calm composure. Has he lowered his defense so much around her?

When Ambra enters the sparring ring, there is a hushed whisper being traded in the crowd. Cynical, curious, and sarcastic. Things Malik does not bother to remember. One of Abbas' students enters the ring - ah, he is sending Kareem.

Basir is acting as the referee, giving a signal to start the fight. And Malik watches as both Ambra and Kareem unsheathe their daggers and attack at the same time.

That is certainly not what he has expected. He watches with amusement as he finds Ambra's method of attack has changed drastically from the last time he saw it. She used to keep her stance close and defensive, more dodging than parrying, and she attacked only when it was safe - wasting numerous chances, to be honest. Yet right now, Malik is taken aback at her ferocity. Her stance is more fluid, still keeping her arms close to her body, but the way she holds the dagger has shown how she treats it like an extension of her hand. Her feet shuffle with each attack, and he finds her kicking the shin of Kareem once in a while. Sneaky, Malik innerly comments.

The fight has gotten dirtier when Kareem includes his bare hand into the fight. A punch flies, knocking Ambra across the face - Malik unconsciously flinches, and finds Altaïr simply frowning from such display of attack.

Ambra recovers quickly, lowering herself from an incoming attack, and lands her own punch to Kareem's abdomen. He swings the dagger to attack, and she parries, followed by another punch across his face.

There is a change in Ambra, and Malik wonders if it is caused by her last mission. Failure in saving her friends might have traumatized her, perhaps she is trying to relive the moment, to rectify her mistake - or perhaps Altaïr has taught her so much that she adopts his method. That could be the reason, Malik concludes, seeing how similar her movement is to Altaïr right now.

But Kareem is relentless, either that or Ambra is distracted, because his next attack manages to slice horizontally across her abdomen, just above her belt. There is a loud gasp heard in the crowd, that even Basir looks ready to stop the fight.

Yet Ambra does not respond to the inflicted wound. She does not hunch over and cry out in pain as expected. Instead, she flings herself forward, punching Kareem's face with one hand, followed by elbowing him across the face. She dodges his next attack, quickly spins around to be behind him. She kicks the back of his knee, and before he falls down, she pulls his hood down and grabs onto the back of his head. Her hand switches the way she holds her dagger, pressing the tip to the side of his neck, sending him pausing in movement, panting.

"That's enough!" Basir ends the fight.

Ambra releases Kareem with a hard shove. She glances around, bowing down towards Abbas and Basir, before making her way to Altaïr. Malik watches as she covers her abdomen, where blood has stained the tunics. Altaïr mutters something to her, and she takes her leave, while he walks over to Abbas to say something. To gloat, probably, Malik scoffs. He moves away from the wall, deciding to follow the victorious female student to the bathhouse.

"That was a good fight, sister." He says upon entering the bathhouse, finding her stopping in her track towards her usual chamber. He walks towards her, still observing, finding no hesitation as she stands still.

"Thank you, Malik." She replies, still panting. "Excuse me, i have to get this cleaned."

"May i stay to accompany then?" He offers, already heading to sit down on nearby bench.

She nods several times, unable to reply in her breathless state, before entering her chamber and closes the door. He listens to the small sound echoing in the bathhouse. The sound of her hissing and cursing quietly, the sound of her boots against the tiles -

"Do you take criticism?" He asks, voice echoing.

"I do - though it might take forever to be applied." She replies with a hiss, and he suspects she has begun cleaning her wound.

"You can always stab the enemy in the joints. The knees, the elbows, the shoulders - it'll hurt much worse, and they'd be immobilized." He says. "From your fight, you always aimed for his neck. Yes, it would kill him quickly, but it would also give him more chance to attack you."

There is a whimper coming out of the chamber, "Thank you - Malik, could you please get Altaïr?"

"Is the wound too deep?" He frowns, genuinely worried.

"I guess. Please, Malik?" She groans. The pained sound alone sends Malik to his feet, quickly heading out of the bathhouse to fetch her much needed instructor.

Altaïr is halfway heading to the bathhouse when Malik sees him, "What are you doing?" The taller assassin asks, tone suspicious.

"Spare the jealousy. Ambra is asking for you." Malik replies curtly.

Altaïr gives him a glance before quicken his pace to the bathhouse. Malik waits until he has entered the chamber, before making his move to stand closer to the door, to listen to what actually happens.

"Remove your hands, Ambra, i can't see from here." Comes Altaïr's voice. There is a yelp coming, that is quickly shushed by him sternly. "Stand still."

"It hurts, Altaïr." Ambra huffs.

"Yet you managed to hold on until the end."

"Ow! Gentle!"

"So demanding." Altaïr scoffs. There are more whimpering and hissing from Ambra, then sounds of fabric rustling, and heavy clang of what sounds like her sword hitting the tiles. "It doesn't need to be cauterized at least, but this needs more than bandages."

"Towels?" She hisses.

"Yes, stand still."

There are more sounds of fabric rustling, footsteps echoing - and Malik suddenly feels disgusted as he hears a small sound of kissing. He quickly erases the mental image of Altaïr leaning down to kiss Ambra.

"Altaïr, i'm bleeding here." Ambra whimpers.

Altaïr hums, "I'm congratulating you for the win."

"Tease."

"As you are." There is a long sound of sharp hiss coming from the male instructor, "by Allah, i'm tempted to take you here right now, Ambra. It's been weeks."

She chuckles, followed by more kissing sounds that send Malik shuddering in disgust. "I know - but i'm injured -" she yelps again, and this time followed by her laughter that is quickly hushed by herself. "Altaïr - Altaïr, tonight, i promise, alright? Please stop biting - it hurts to laugh!"

Malik takes it as a cue to leave the bathhouse before he hears more of their banters. Still shaking off what he just heard, he makes his way towards the garden, the only place where he believes will be best to quickly forget the lovers' conversation.

They will be alright, he concludes as he enters the garden, smiling widely upon being greeted by Lina. He is unknown to what they are feeling for each other right now. But at least it answers his curiosity -

At least for the time being

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you soooo much for your support!  
> This has come to an end, as it has gone too long (and there's still a lot to write). I'll make another part soon to continue their story!
> 
> Thank you so much! ❤️


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